


they are not children any longer

by biiitchofCambridge



Series: trilogy [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Anders & Fenris (Dragon Age) Friendship, Anders (Dragon Age) Positive, Anders Is Needy, Anemia Mention, Angst, Arishok duel, Beefcake Hawke Family, Bethany and Carver Hawke Live, Bipolar Anders (Dragon Age), Bisexual Cullen Rutherford, Blood Magic (Dragon Age), Blood Magic Can Make WLW Babies, Blue Hawke, Brown Hawke Family, C-Bomb is used, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Circle Mage Bethany Hawke, Circle of Magi, Colourism/Racism, Coming of Age, Content Warning: Curse Words, Cullen Rutherford Has Issues, Cullen Rutherford is Sad, Custom Hawke Family, Danarius Can Eat Dirt and FUCKING Die, Dirty Jokes, Elf-Blooded Hawke (Dragon Age), Elthina Critical, Elvhen Language, Everyone Is Gay, F/F, F/M, Fair warning!, Fenris & Merrill (Dragon Age) Friendship, Fenris (Dragon Age) has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Found Family, Fuck the Divine, Gore, Grand Cleric Elthina Is A Meanie Weenie, Graphic Description in Chapter 2, Grey hair from stress, Grief/Mourning, Hawke Goes On A Bender, Hawke Triplets AU, Hightown is for Simps and Rude Smelly Butts, How Cullen Rutherford Got His Scar, I love irony, I'm not sorry, Implied Dirty Talk, Implied Gay Crush, Implied Lesbophobia, Implied Self-Harm in Chapter Four, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/References to Prostitution, Kid Fic, Kirkwall Is Greece (You Can't Change My Mind), Leandra Kinda Sucks, Light Dom/sub, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Mage Male Hawke - Freeform, Mage Rights, Mel Hawke Has Friends, Mentions of F/F sex, Mentions of M/M sex, Multi, Nipple Piercings, Noble Intentions, Opulence, Original Character with Deafness, Original Child(ren) Characters - Freeform, Over the events of Dragon Age 2, Pillow Talk, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Princess Bethany Hawke, Purple Hawke, Q-slur mention, Red Hawke, Rogue Male Hawke, Sebastian Is Friends With Everyone's Mother, Sebastian Is the Butt of my Jokes, Sebastian and Anders get Along, Sibling hugs, Sign Language, Soiled Trousers from Alcohol :(, Sort of Friendship, Templar Carver Hawke, The Bloodmage Has Anemia, The Homosexual Agenda is just Anders' Manifesto, The Kirkwall Gang - Freeform, The Templar Killer, They Are Not Children Any Longer, Warden Carver Hawke, Warrior Female Hawke, alcohol use, and also an asshole, curly hair, fuck the templars, give that boy a hug, hawke twins au, hugs!, i mean its DA2 what are you expecting??, implied racism, implied threesome, premature aging, referenced sexual acts, self-sacrificing tendencies, touching!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:22:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23488267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biiitchofCambridge/pseuds/biiitchofCambridge
Summary: Before she was the Templar Killer and before he was the Champion. Before he was the Usurper and before she was the Princess; before he said I do.
Relationships: Anders & Female Hawke, Anders/Male Hawke, Bethany Hawke/Sebastian Vael, Female Hawke/Isabela/Merrill, Fenris & Female Hawke, Fenris/Male Hawke
Series: trilogy [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1689880
Comments: 5
Kudos: 9





	1. i. gritty girls won't make it to the cloister

**Author's Note:**

> This is what my quarantine has brought me... Stay safe, everyone.

Marie is two years old, soon to be three. She has a little brother, who’s just turned two. She makes it a point to tell everyone she knows. 

Her mother has a swollen belly; she’s been told that she’ll have another brother or sister soon. All Marie wants is another dog. 

Garrett likes babies, though. He makes it a point to tell everyone. He’s very excited. He won’t be Baby Garrett anymore, but Big Garrett. His father has lines around his eyes like he’s tired. All Garrett wants is for those lines to smooth. 

Marie is asleep when she hears it; a scream like someone is dying. She peeks into their parent’s room, but there is a flurry of legs and she’s suddenly in her Father’s arms. He wiggles his fingers, little green beads of light appear, and she’s asleep again. 

The sun is out, but only a little. Garrett is sleeping beside her in their shared bed. Marie wants to check on her mother, so she stands up and makes her way back to the only other room in the house. 

Her mother is holding a bundle, while her father holds another. She was promised one, not two. She says so, and her Father laughs at her. It sounds like big, booming Chantry bells. Marie likes her Father’s laugh very much. 

Garrett pads in behind her and inhales loudly; he scurries up the bed to look at the squashed faces of babies. Marie sneaks up to her Father’s side, where she’s helped up by his big, meaty arm. She settles in between her parents, Garrett squashed under her arm. He peeks excitedly, sees their little sister with awe in their mother’s arms. 

Marie looks into her father’s embrace; her new brother has little, baby curls on the top of his head. When he opens his eyes, he has a sliver of blue. She sighs. She’ll always be the only one to have brown eyes. 

__

Garrett is twelve now. He is growing every day, skinny in his ribs and thicker in his shoulders. He has his own bed now, sleeps up in the loft with Mel. She started going by Mel when she turned thirteen-- she is a grown girl now, she was allowed to choose her own name.

Their father is mostly grey now, despite being young. He has ropes of muscle from gardening and putting in the hay, from hauling rocks from bitter land, from carting Carver home from every Chantry service because he’s still having tantrums and he’s ten. Their father is funny, hardhearted and loving. He still cuddles Carver into his lap when they think he needs it; he still kisses them all good-night. He’s teaching Bethany magic, now, too.

Garrett is better at ice and lightning; Bethany is better at fire and throwing rocks, but you’d expect it to be the other way around. Garrett is angry most days now, even angrier than Mel usually is. She was born mad, Mother says. She bit her mother’s breasts raw, puked on their Father’s best tunic, smacked Garrett whenever he started whining. She cut her hair with scissors when she was four; she has a shoulder-length cut that is uneven because Mel keeps cutting it short.

Garrett is mad. Mel gets to go to school with Carver and learn how to read and write. Mother’s an okay teacher, but Garrett wants out. Mel has made no friends, either, which  _ pisses _ Garrett off even more. Leave it to Mel to make no friends in a place that was  _ made _ for making friends.

Bethany is smaller than Garrett, ten-years-old and lonely. She has a friend, a neighbour. Garrett had friends when he was ten, but now he’s big and too moody. His skin itches, a liquid heat all the time. He’s pissy and aroused and hateful all the time, and he hates himself because he’s not like this. Bethany is never mean, either. A little bitter, sure, but never mean. So Garrett is never mean to her.

She sits out in the apple orchard sometimes and reads. He likes to go pretend to pick apples and shoo curious deer away while he listens to her sing and read to herself. She wants a Knight in Shining Armour. Garrett might hate how she’s better at nature magic, but he loves seeing her smile. He’d do anything to get her a Prince Charming.

__

Mel just turned thirteen. She does not look like a girl yet. She’s not sure if she wants to look like one or not. She has no breasts, hips made for leg wrestling, feet that are long and good for tripping others with. Her hair is curly when it’s short, and she likes it short. It makes her look more like her Father and less like everyone around her. They all have white skin, pale eyes and Autumn-leaf hair. She and Carver stick out like sore thumbs in the schoolroom-- Carver with his springy curls and brown skin and freckles, her with her uneven curls and big nose and long eyelashes.

She does not fit in with any girls, either. They all giggle and pink at the idea of a boy liking them; Mel meets that with an ego boost, but not much else. She likes wearing Garrett’s trousers, even though they’re far too long for her. She cuffs them, wears her father’s old tunics with a cord around her waist. She is still small, soft with girlhood. She wants muscles, superior height, a short haircut to keep her hair curly and  _ Hawke. _

She hates her mother. She hates her more than boys that punch her because she’s trying to be like them but can’t because she can’t piss while standing. 

Her mother wants her to have long hair that can be braided, wants her to smile sweetly at the Templars and pretend they wouldn’t run her father through if they  _ knew _ . Her mother wants her to be quiet. Mel hates her because the only thing Mel is good at is being mad.

Mel is mad. So mad, most days, that if she doesn’t end up yelling at someone, she’s usually asleep. Mel gets into tussles every day with Carver. It ends with them getting their ears boxed or their foreheads slammed together-- a truce. Carver is as tall as Mel is now, and he’s nearly three years younger. The boys are growing fast like their father; Father said he was six-foot when he was fifteen. She would do anything to look more like her father.

Mel, undeniably, is a Hawke. If she’s not solemn, she’s an imp. She’s got warm brown skin, a prominent nose, a smatter of freckles across her face. But she is small like the Amells, her hair less curly than the boys’. She has her father’s eyes but her mother’s smile. She rarely smiles now.

One day after dinner, she pokes up to the loft to get away from her family-- they insist on playing card games. Mel refuses to learn out of spite, so she comes up to the loft to read or jerk off or to plan another scheme that will indefinitely get her into shit.

She’s poking through her father’s boxes that they’re forbidden to touch. Naturally, she nearly has them catalogued. There’s one last chest that has a big lock on it, but she’s been practicing with her lockpicks enough to be confident in attempting.   
Mel works quietly, effectively; the lock unlatches, and she sets the lock gently on the floor, careful to not scrape the wood. She props open the chest, takes in the sight of what’s inside.

There are weapons wrapped in linen stacked upon each other. Mel sifts through, quiet as a Chantry mouse, and pulls the biggest one out. She looks at its beautiful hilt, runs her little fingers down the blade. It’s iron, barely used, extremely sharp. Mel stands with the sword in her skinny arms, sees herself in the chipped looking-glass across the long, lonely loft. Her expression is pleased, and if she pushes her hair behind her ears, it looks shorter. She decides something that day: she  _ will _ use this weapon, and she  _ will  _ use it well.

__

Garrett is fifteen now, six-foot-two and broad. He is still lanky, probably won’t fill out for a long time, but he’s superior in height to all the Ferelden boys. Lothering is in a lake basin, full of food and free from most diseases. The rest of the Ferelden boys are shorter, of thicker stock than Garrett. Until he meets John.

John is six-foot-three, thick in his shoulders and thighs; he has beefy arms and a clean-cut face with baby green eyes. His hair is shaggy and blond, half curled because he lives near the humid coastline. They met at a village dance. Garrett feels his stomach ache from how much he likes John, how much he wants to talk to him. John’s father is a fisherman, and he is short like the rest of the Ferelden fathers, besides his own. Malcolm is tall, six-foot, but he’s smaller now. He’s getting older. Leandra’s not though. She’s ageing normally, with grey hairs springing at her hairline and wrinkles blooming beside her pretty eyes. John’s mother is from the mountains, he said. Explains his height.

John said hello first, at the second dance. “I can pick you out of the crowd pretty easily,” he laughed. Garrett laughed, too, because he would’ve stuttered if he had chosen to speak.

They go on walks during the weekly dances. Sometimes, because John is sixteen, he’ll go steal an ale and they’d share. John is great at skipping stones, and he’s better at arm wrestling. Sometimes, when his hair hangs in his eyes, Garrett brushes it out of the way, chuckles and swats his arm when John teases him. They are close, so close that Malcolm warns him.

“Keep yourself in check, Garrett,  _ I’m  _ the only mage in this house,” Father would say. He has old-man lines around his mouth now, and he’s starting to cough some in his sleep. But his eyes are still young, and he’s always ready to give Mel a noogie or help Bethany with her flower garden. He and Carver don’t get along anymore, but Carver’s moody and thirteen. It will pass eventually as his bad year did.

He meets John at the dance hall on the night he nearly got caught. The full moons are out; the world is sharp ivory and navy. John is wearing the tunic Garrett really likes on him; it's tight around his chest, a soft olive. It has no sleeves, shows off his carved muscles and freckled shoulders. He gives Garrett an odd smile; when they go for a walk, John walks closer than usual. Garrett does not read into this; John walks close when he’s cold, and it's late summer. His nipples are tight under his shirt; Garrett teases him about being cold, offers his sweater. John takes it, and Garrett’s knees go weak when he slips it on.

“Let me thank you,” John smiles, takes Garrett’s hand and pulls him behind Ellie Kowalski’s haymow. He pushes Garrett to the wall, slides down to his powerful knees, takes Garrett’s scrawny hips between his massive hands and tugs his trousers down enough. Garrett remembers how dry his throat was, how bright the moons shined against Lake Calenhad in the distance. John’s hair looked like gold, his broad shoulders caged in Garrett’s too-small wool sweater. He kept his hands balled at his sides, careful so he wouldn’t accidentally burn him. John made soft noises, his thumbs pressed too hard on Garrett’s hip bones. Garrett came quietly, his mouth caught in a careful ‘o’.

“Was it bad?” John asked, wiping his mouth. Garrett pulled his pants up.

“It was amazing,” Garrett complimented. John turned pink; Garrett, taking a leap of faith, slipped his hand into John’s pants. John turned red, then. Garrett loved that about him. 

Garrett has a bad habit of holding himself back, so much so that there’s  _ too _ much to hold back. When John comes down his throat, he feels his hands crackle with electricity; he shocks himself and John.

John is oddly calm about it. He tucks himself back into his pants, grins big. “That was hot,” he said breathlessly. Then his eyes get big.

“Run.” He whispers. Garrett can feel a smite; he’s seen them as he passed a group of drunken Templars at the Chantry.

Running with a boner is never easy, but with three armoured Templars? Garrett puked blood for the next two days. He didn’t see John, or his sweater, for a long time either.

__

Mel and Carver had a common pastime, perhaps the only one that they didn’t fight about. Carver was better at talking to them, but Mel was better at intimidating them. She was seventeen now and had gone through her growth spurt. She was five-ten, corded with hard-earned muscle and covered in scars. She would join the Ferelden army next year, forgetting the tiny village she grew up in. She’d cut her long braid off, maybe get a tattoo. Send money back so her parents could afford to buy Carver a better greatsword and buy Bethany a silk dress with embroidered flowers on the sleeves. 

But, before she could do that, she’d have Carver trained up in Templar hunting.

They had Chantry-issued boots; they had a specific shape that no one in Lothering could afford. They clinked around the tavern and the Chantry the most. There were four; three men, one woman. The woman was much more level-headed than the men, and she most often broke up the fights they picked with Mel. She and Carver never beat on her-- she didn’t turn a mage kid in until there was a public uprise because he burnt someone’s peach orchard. He’d been manifested for four years.

There were three men; two were old, used to avoiding the Hawkes and a couple of the village’s bruisers. But one was new, never seen in Lothering. Most times, Lothering was a stop to Tantervale or Starkhaven. He was short and stocky, built like a Fereldan, with cruel grey eyes and red hair. He had a crooked nose, small lips and low brow, giving him the appearance of looking a little pissy all the time. Mel had him tagged because he used a short sword and a kite shield, whereas the rest would use greatswords because they were more menacing.

“Find him,” Mel said, her greatsword on her back. She had a bow to give her the appearance of a hunter, and she was slick with one, but not like she was with her greatsword.

Carver nodded curtly. He had a sword, but Mel caught him sneaking glances at her own. Even though most days she wanted to kick him in the face, she wanted to give him the world on a silver platter more.

Carver was casual, more so than she was. He shuffled around the Chantry, said hello to the priestesses, kept himself casual. He prayed; Mel was not devout, usually opted to stay home with Father and play with the dogs while Leandra took Garrett, Carver and Bethany to sing hymns and enjoy basking in Andraste’s light or some shit. She found no comfort in a woman murdered by a man’s jealousy.

Carver left the chantry; the Templar was not there. They mosied over to the Tavern; Mel waved to the whores, who waved back prettily; Carver turned red and kept walking. They’d offered  _ once  _ when he was awkward and fourteen. He’s fifteen now and he hasn’t forgotten.

The Templar is sitting at the bar, half-blind in drink. He’s young and foolish, probably not much older than Mel. He smells like he’s taken a dip in a wine bottle, anyway.

“Look at the man walkin’ in,” one of the patrons hollered. Mel ignored him. She looked like a boy with wide hips and long hair.

“What did you say about my sister?” Carver asked. He started bar fights, Mel finished them. She was never sore with him when a fight was involved.

He walked up to the man-- a farmer full of ale, his crop too young to do much with-- and punched him flat. He was fifteen, but six-foot-one and still growing. He wasn’t scrawny like Garrett was, either, but broad and muscled. His feet were too big for his body and his hands were massive, but they connected to leathered skin just fine. 

Mel stuck her greatsword into the dirt floor, hooked her bow onto the hilt carefully before walking up to the drunk Templar and punching him square in the face.

“BAR FIGHT!” Someone called. Mel lived for moments like this; she gripped the Templar by the armour.

“What was that for?!” The Templar slurred.

“You’re leaving to go to Tantervale, aren’t you? You should,” Mel smiled viciously. Carver was getting overwhelmed, so Mel punched him in the face again; he collapsed into the bartop as she dove into the fray. This was the one thing they didn’t fight about, and they both loved it a bit too much.

__

  
  


Father’s funeral pyre was too warm on Garrett’s skin. 

Mel stood beside him with her armour on. She was an army lieutenant; her hair was cut short to show off how it curled tight, the underside of her head shaved clean. She was crying, but in that scary-silent way that she could. Mel only cried at funerals.

Carver was the one who had found him. He was face down in the hayfield outback, his hand clutched to his chest in death. His hair was mostly white, even though he was just into his forties. He was so healthy that sunrise at breakfast-- he’d teased Garrett about needing a haircut, he’d kissed Mel’s latest letter like he did every morning. His mother gave him a big hug and a kiss before he went to the field; he’d given her a quick pat on the ass before she swatted him out the door, a laugh caught in her smile the whole time. Bethany made him a sandwich and poured him a glass of milk; Carver was walking it up to Father as punishment for getting into another fistfight and losing.

Garrett took the cart up and hauled his father up; the Chantry mother wrapped him in linen and said the service would be in two days. Mel was down the day after Father died. She did nothing but sort all of his things away, cleaned the house up for guests. She didn’t eat those two days. Mother didn’t even get out of bed. Carver cried himself to sleep every night and Bethany sat hollowly in the doorway, his staff cradled to her chest.

Garrett was twenty years old now. He pulled his oiled cape down from his head, let the rain claim his curly hair. Bethany gripped his cold hand, her fiery hands keeping his toasted. Leandra was sobbing into Carver’s chest; he stood bravely, his chin set and his mouth tight. He had tears in his eyes, but they did not fall.

They are not children any longer.


	2. ii. the templar killer meets her match

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I love you,” Bethany said. Mel said nothing at all, but her chapped lips trembled just enough-- she would cry tonight when no one was looking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: There is a scene that starts with "Garrett and Mel were walking the streets of Hightown--" that has GRAPHIC content in it; it's comparable to a hate crime and is an example of Templar (police) brutality. PLEASE read with caution, I don't want anyone to leave this fic feeling bad.

Mel is twenty-four. Kirkwall smells like fish and piss and smog from smokestacks. She hates it for spite alone, but she cherishes Kirkwall like a favourite child. There is always a fight, there’s always a girl who’ll grin and run her fingers through her short, curly hair (both north and south). The drink is cheap, the work ever-flowing, the fight never ending. She meets each brawl with a bloody grin and slowly worsening her crooked nose.

The year as someone’s soldier goes by slowly, like someone tied the year to a wagon and dragged it through the rocks. But it goes, and their pockets get a little bit fuller. Mel is thankful she’s doing this young and not her mother’s age, who’s steadily nearing fifty now. She doesn’t care about Mel’s hair or her clothes anymore; most days, she just ignores her. Mel wouldn’t mind if they had a bigger house. Most nights, Mel finds a pretty bed with a prettier pillow princess to crawl into and alongside, but when she can’t, she sleeps against the wall beside the door, Dog’s head drooling in her lap. She knows this isn’t permanent, pledges such to herself.

Mel and Carver took jobs as mercs, everyone knows. It’s easy to tell; Mel’s too grizzled to be this young and beautiful to have the gritty, downtrodden expression she parades most days-- you have to have a lot of blood staining your fingernails before you can claim those eyes for yourself. Carver’s the same, but worse; he was good for a soldier, a better man having joined in, but now that he’s a merc, he’s back to being thirteen and  _ therefore  _ a cunt again-- Mel, when she’s not killing, wants to run him through. When they aren’t on a job, they’re scrapping. Mel broke a chair over Carver’s back, he shattered one of their only pottery plates over her head. Mel gave him a scar on his hip from kicking him after she’d thrown an uppercut to him in the throat. He cracked three of her ribs once in a tussle; she  _ nearly _ collapsed his urethra, she had a bruised mammary gland for two months. They fought with each other because they always had, but they had their father or captain to knock some sense into them; their merc captain doesn’t give a fuck if they scrap, as long as he can watch Carver break Mel’s nose  _ yet again _ . He buys her an ale every time she does, tries to snuggle in a little closer. She’s a good fighter, and she’s filled out some now-- she’s got hips for days, just like her mother, and silky skin, like her father. She’s got tits now, but they’ve slowly disappeared behind muscle. Soldiering made her strong, but mercenary work and no food brought that strength into her  _ skin _ . She told her merc captain she’d fuck his wife before she’d even look at him. His wife is dead. 

Garrett is twenty-three, almost twenty-four. He feels Kirkwall’s air get colder, but a Kirkwall winter is a Ferelden summer. Kirkwall is all rocks and skinny, scrawny trees reaching toward the sky like irredeemable crime lords peek at the sunlight before death. Garrett wears little clothes (if he can help it, anyway) during the summer months. Smuggling lyrium gives to many different kinds of characters that can be played. Most often, he acts quiet and doesn’t get caught. When he has a chance at being caught, he freezes his offenders in ice and runs like the wind. He is fast, faster than he looks. Garrett is not skinny anymore; he is corded in muscle like his father, although Garrett does not work like his father did. Garrett does anything and everything he can for coin; when no one is looking, he sits in alleyways and meets nobles. Their exchange is quick and Garrett never enjoys himself, but his mother always gives him a kiss on the cheek when he comes home. She is his one bright light in this world; she is good to him, even when he’s paid poorly and can’t help with the bills. Even when he is a bad son and stays out all night with Bethany smuggling lyrium and jewels.

Bethany is his rock, in many ways. She keeps the smugglers in check with her sweet voice and firm hand; Garrett is too diplomatic to extend threats, but sweet Bethany with a heart of gold has no issue; hers are veiled and contemplative, and Garrett respects her for them. She is still young, and so saccharine he has to beat back rich suitors daily that would take her and make her a trophy. Bethany is not a trophy, she is a force of nature so exquisite that Garrett forgets she’s his little sister.

They get along well, even when they are both cross. They play cards and talk about clothes they’d like to have someday; they go swimming at the docks when the moons peek over Sundermount and they talk for hours about nothing. Garrett is thankful for her.

__

  
  


It is the new year. Mel’s twenty-fifth birthday will come soon. Mother has started talking about nearby dockworkers in front of Mel; big, broad strapping Kirkwall boys with sun-slapped skin and bleached eyes and hair; she mentions Fenris, a man she helped the other night, with his long white hair and his broad, slim-strong shoulders. Mel does not respond; a man between her thighs is as enticing as getting an infection.

The air is salty, thicker in a way that calms her throat and smoother that keeps her skin clear. The longer she is in Kirkwall, the less she wants to go home. Ferelden is a distant fever dream now. If Mel had hated her father, she would’ve forgotten he’d ever existed. But she remembers him every day; there is a man that has the same curls as him, there is a woman who has a booming laugh; someone swore like he did, back before she knew it was Chasind. She misses her father like she misses a limb.

There is a templar that skulks near where they live. Mel has given thought to pick up on Templar hunting again, but these Templars are different than the ones back home. These Templars are hardly people. They take more lyrium, she knows. Their skin glows after every Sunday when they’re given their next draft of it; they all have blue-tinged veins, their scleras a blue so light it's hardly noticeable. They are stronger, too. They have regimented workout sessions; they are all thin from almost too much running, and bulked up from rich food. Mel takes note of all they do, and she thinks of what she will do to them.

Carver is not helpful; he does not want to stir a ruckus. “There’s too many, Mel,” he’d said.

“There’s always something.” She’d said back. There were Templars everywhere. She wanted to start hitting some stationed near their ramshackle house, in twilight when their faces won’t be seen.

“No,” he’d responded, “there’s  _ fact  _ and then there’s what  _ you  _ think you can handle.” His blue eyes were earnest. He looked like their mother.

“I’ll do it myself.” She said simply. Mel did what she wanted, simple as that.

Templar hunting was easy and fattening in Kirkwall; while Garrett was looking for long-term jobs, she was knocking Templars out cold and stealing their coins; some for her, some for the next poor fool that needed them. She took requests, too, sometimes; a man with a missing hand gave her a ring to break a Templar’s wrist for him-- bones crunched easily under her boot. A tiny elvhen woman offered her honey and yogurt for a year if she’d break a Templar’s arm that had taken to molesting little kids in the Alienage. Mel took up on the honey and yogurt everyday Monday morning, after she kicked high Templars down to the fucking  _ dirt. _

She started growing her hair out; they had her description as a man listed; “TALL, DARK COMPLEXION, SHORT CURLY HAIR.”  _ Hawke  _ hair. She kept it knotted into a braid, and started wearing a relieved Templar helmet. Mel was harder to detect then. She did this for four months, nearly five; Carver only joins her because he worries about her-- she is becoming careless with her name.

__

A dwarf named Varric Tethras took a shine to Garrett and Carver, asked them on an expedition. Mel met with him the second time at a bar she found too shady to enter; The Hanged Man. It held pissy ale and lonely, touchy men.

Varric looked like a sleaze, but he didn’t smell like one. Mel didn’t trust him, not for a  _ fucking _ second, but she liked his idea. She just didn’t like the idea of Garrett and Carver going. Because Garrett was a hopeful moron and Carver was worse-- he was  _ young. _

Varric was convincing. Mel almost wanted to believe him, so she played along and took him, this friend of Garrett’s called Fenris, and this cute Dalish elf they’d helped down from the mountain to find Anders, the Grey Warden. Everything went well until Karl turned around.

Tranquillity was an always looming sword hanging over Garrett and Bethany’s heads, and Mel’s heart. She’d rip her lungs from her chest before she’d let them be lobotomized, abused and neglected. Seeing Anders lose his shit only made sense to her, and she gave him no flak for it. She’d murder anyone who’d even  _ think _ of doing that to her mage siblings.

The Fenris guy was kind of a dick about it, but Mel watched his eyes when she moved too fast; he flinched when a stiff wind blew something down the street. Twitchy fucker, he was.

Merrill, though. She was something else. She was sweet in that dorky, virgin way that made Mel’s tongue weep-- she was the girl of her top dreams. She was small enough to hold up against the wall, curvy enough to grip as she buried her head between her sweet little legs… She made no advances, though. She didn’t want to make her think she owed her or something. Merrill was a little  _ too  _ good for Mel.

__

Garrett and Mel were walking the streets of Hightown, pretending to own the place. Mel was in an uncharacteristically good mood; she even laughed at his bad cunnilingus joke.  _ Like you even know how a good cunt tastes, you queer fucker _ she’d said. With a smile and everything. Mel’s good mood didn’t last long, however.

As they rounded a corner, there was a trio of Templars fucking with an elf-- he was small and his nose was broken. His eyes were dazed, even from where they stood. Mel didn’t even think, she just hopped in and asked  _ WHAT the FUCK are you DOING you CUNTS? _

Mel wanted everyone convinced that she was a hardhearted piece of shit (much like their father), but she wasn’t. She was the noblest person Garrett had ever met; even when she was bitchy and mean-spirited and fisticuffed with Carver.

The Templars ganged up on her; Garrett squeezed his six-foot-three tall ass into the fight and helped try to even it out, but Mel just jumped in to take his hits on top of her own. She spat into a Templar’s face and he punched her in the chest. She heaved but jumped back into it. She always wore some armour, and he regretted not wearing any.

But then the game shifted; a Templar smited. He dropped to his knees, his eyeballs jiggling in the sockets as he gulped helplessly at the air, cradling his ears as the white noise built in his nose. His entire head felt like it was submerged and he was forced to breathe the liquid.

When he could start to see again, Mel was being held down by two Templars; they had her long braid pulled back; their leader, a blond man, nodded.

“That’s her,” he confirmed, “I’d recognize those teeth anywhere.” 

Garrett thought to how Mel had bitten the Knight-Captain when he nearly saw her face; her helmet had been knocked off, she headbutted him and bit his neck as he hollered in pain. He grabbed his neck and ducked as they ran off. Mel had taken to biting her targets if she  _ had _ to-- she’d mark them for easy aversion for mages.

He nodded as the third lackey brought his jackboot down onto the back of her head, crushing her nose flat to the ground. He heard her skull crack a little. He stared on wordlessly, his blond hair shaved close to his scalp. He was soulless and he beckoned his stock with a swift shake of his hand.

“Templar Hunter, my ass!” The Templar growled. He had no front teeth and mean, piggy eyes that were the colour of limp asparagus. Garrett remembered these eyes. He waited until they were at the end of the alleyway, then Garrett collected Mel into his arms and healed her scalp shut, uncaring of the heated presence; the skull was only fractured, and he thanked his lucky stars for it. He hefted his muscled sister over his shoulders like a shepherd would carry a lost lamb and started towards Darktown.

__

When she came to, she was in Anders’ underground healing hole; her whole face ached, her knuckles busted and broken. Nothing else was, thankfully.

She looked over; Merrill was asleep on the wicker chair beside her cot, her sweet face squashed onto her shoulder. She’d taken a shine to the Hawke siblings.

“What time is it?” She rasped; Merrill jumped from her seat, lightning flying from her fingertips and scorching the dirt floor.

“Oh, dear!” She sighed forlornly. She was sleepy, that much was obvious.

“Time?” Mel prompted. She wanted to smile, but it hurt too much.

“You’ve been out three days,” she offered helpfully.

“Fuck.” Mel cursed. “Could you go get me my clothes? I need to ask Varric a favour.” She waved to her mostly naked body under a thin sheet.

“I don’t think you can leave,” Merrill said, but Mel was already sitting up and shifting her feet onto the ground. She was covered in scars and muscles were tight from disuse.

“Please don’t make me get on my knees and beg,” Mel half teased, half coughed.

Merrill looked over her shoulder to where Anders was passed out.

“Drink this elfroot potion and I’ll bring you your clothes.” Merrill decided, pink with power.

“I’ll play your game,” Mel flirted as she drank what was offered to her. It tasted like shit, but Merrill handed her clothes to her. Mel slipped them on with stiffness in her joints, then she kissed both of Merrill’s cheeks before she took off to find Varric in Lowtown before he did something  _ stupid. _

Merrill blushed foolishly as she watched the Templar Killer leave with  _ purpose. _

__

Carver was twenty-three years old. His curls were long and in his face, but he was too cheap to get them cut by one of the few barbers that knew how curls grew. So he left them. But he missed his short, army-issue haircuts.

With Mel having broken her nose and gained a mean concussion, he had to do Templar Hunting with Garrett; they were tight on a few sovereigns and needed the coin fast. Garrett wasn’t good at it, either. He was easier to incapacitate than Mel, and he was louder. He didn’t soften his step or attempt to look somewhere else with hungry eyes; at least Mel  _ tried _ to look inconspicuous, however bad she did it.

Garrett was just different from Mel, too. He waved all friendly-like, stooped low to give little homeless kids some coin and heal their busted knees and bruised elbows. Mel just waited until they slept before she left food and a blanket; she didn’t want them to expect anything from her.

“When is the expedition due to leave?” Carver asked, pretending to puruse a store as they watched Templars stalk the halls like stupid warhounds looking for a bone.

“Two days; we’re supposed to finalize who’s going tomorrow.” Garrett shook his head, giving Carver a look.  _ Not them. _

They kept prowling Hightown; by this point, most nobles knew of Mel and her big, broad brothers. Carver was used to stares-- being the only brown kid in central Lothering always helped-- but he was also massive to boot. He was six-foot-five, wide like a barrell in the chest and thick in his thighs and arms. His calves made some men’s heads look small.

A whore outside the Blooming Rose stopped him, grinning with her eyes peeking from her eyelashes, “Hear that big feet mean--” 

Garrett steered him away, “Huge appreciation for potted plants,  _ thank you _ for pointing that out!” He gave her a blinding smile and frog-marched Carver away.

Carver threw him off, “Why are you like that?”

“She had the lyrium look, first of all. And I have a friend that has her genital warts, so…” Garrett trailed off, his eyes locked on something else.

Carver didn’t turn, “That him?” He whispered.

Garrett smiled, patted his baby brother on the cheek, “You’re so cute, you know that?” He winked and began walking away, towards a Templar with greasy brown hair and a distinct limp-- Mel always cuffed them in the knee so everyone would know that they did wrong-- helped mages avoid them easy.

Garrett followed him down an alley; Carver had forgotten that Garrett could  _ move _ . And that, when pressed, could be a  _ monster _ in a fight.

Garrett had the Templar on his knees, his eyes dazed like he was half-dead. Garrett punched him in the face, magicked a lightning bolt into his fist and knocked the shit out of him; gold teeth fell to the ground and Garrett stomped on them, kicking the man down. Carver watched and made sure no other Templars would come to help their comrade, and he was mostly successful, until that  _ moron _ of a brother got smited. He had no pain tolerance, despite growing up as Mel’s punching bag.

“For fuck’s sake,” Carver griped, stomping forward and kicking the Templar in the face-- and looking up to see a half-naked Templar holler orders; he was hiking his grey trousers onto his scrawny hips as he beckoned some of his brethren.

“Get up, you fuckhead, we have to  _ go! _ ” Carver yelled, pulling Garrett onto stumbling feet before shoving him into a coherent sprint-- then he was gone, like the wind, Carver pumping his legs as he vaulted over merchandise and swiping between people. He, like Mel, had bad brakes-- he had to jump over this old lady so he wouldn’t bull her over, and he was thankful for his long legs. She cried out as she ducked, but Carver was launched two feet over her head before she was completely on the ground.

They got away, far enough to hide in a foundry by the docks, but that wouldn’t last long.

“We need to get to the Hanged Man,” Garrett huffed before he spat blood. Just because he could run fast didn’t mean he had much stamina. He started to look a little grey, and when he straightened, he limped back onto the wall. 

“You didn’t take your medicine, did you?” Carver deadpanned.

“Nah, saved ‘em for Beth,” he coughed into his fist.

“Come on, you smarmy fucker, let’s go,” Carver slipped his arm under one of Garrett’s arms, and together they limped into wherever the foundry tunnel led them.

__

“Are you sure they’re okay with you paying your  _ entire _ portion for the adventure?” Varric asked. Mel nodded, watched Varric finish counting her dirty Templar-smashing coins.

“When do we leave?” She asked.

“We?” Varric asked.

“You and I are going; they’re staying here.” Mel smiled; her nose throbbed, the tight flesh aching over the bridge of her nose and cheeks as they accommodated the stretch. She’d have a nasty scar, and she knew neither of her nostrils would ever work as well as they did.

“Do they know this?” Varric asked. He had a gold tooth. Mel wanted to call him a sleaze and move on, but she didn’t.

“No, but they’ll get over it; it’s better Mother’s least favourite kid dies versus the Golden Boy and her baby.” Mel stretched her legs out from where they were splayed wide at Varric’s desk; he leaned back into his seat and rubbed at his broad chin, the rasp of his blooming shadow bothering Mel’s tired ears.

“Why do you believe that?” He asked. He was surprisingly easy to talk to, despite looking like one of the greasiest fucks in Kirkwall city.

“Fuck, Varric, I’m here to make you a deal, take it or leave it.” Mel huffed, throwing her arms up. She felt like crying, but didn’t.

“I’ll take it; it’s easier to move if I’m with one versus two, and I figured your brothers would fight the whole time.” Varric put the coins back into the bag, pulled the drawstring tight and sighed.

“Drink to help you sleep? That cut looks like it’ll scar.” Varric offered.

“I like wine.” Mel replied, gave a half-warm smile. Varric took that as a victory.

__

Bethany is twenty-three years old. She has a smile brighter than the sun and eyes warmer than any fire. She is beautiful in her innocence and regal in her stride; she is noble-born enough to appear aloof in public, but country-raised enough to know she is one of the majority.

Bethany counts the nights her sister is gone. She never slept in her bunk beside Bethany unless it was cold enough to cause the dog to sleep by the hearth, but when she did, she held Bethany’s head over her heart, like they were both still little girls with stolen silk bonnets on their curls. Bethany was jealous of Mel, with her strong aquiline nose and loose black curls; she has a small nose and tighter curls, ones that have to be combed often and pulled into a bun to keep them flat.

Mel has been gone for thirty-seven days. Bethany holds the dog close, breathing in her fur; Mel smells like dog hair, sweat and coconut oil that she rubs on her skin and in under her arms to smell better. She is tall, noticeably taller than Bethany. She wears leather pants and usually walks barefoot, even when the wind blows cold and the sea crashes against the docks. Her dirty feet only ever see boots when she goes out at night to terrorize the tyrants or trek the streets with their new-found friends.

They were never really friends as kids. Mel kicked anyone’s ass that threatened Bethany’s existence, but they never played paper dolls or talked about the kids they wanted. Mel was focused on  _ now; _ Bethany was focused on  _ when. _ Mel never took time to make paper dolls, she just tried to prove she was tough and could shoulder the world on her back; she learned to read fast, taught the rest of them while their mother got dinner ready and their father did chores. Mel helped and did not ask for help; she learned how to braid her own hair as quickly as she could so their mother could spend more time on Bethany’s. Bethany doesn’t know if she should thank Mel for giving her an easy life, or hate her for treating her like glass.

On the forty-first day, Mel returns. She is worse for wear, her hair matted and her eyes pale from being underground for so long. She looks hungry, but she always did; Mel just had this look of  _ more. _ But there’s a look Bethany has never seen on Mel’s face when she sees her;  _ failure. _ Mel does not lose; she may accept small moments of hard-learned lessons, but she always pulls out as champion in the end. This time she does not.

Knight-Captain Rutherford had come to their house and told her she would be taken; as she was the Templar Killer’s little sister, they gave her an hour to say her goodbyes. Rutherford stood outside of her uncle’s house as Bethany said her goodbyes to her family as she packed. Forty-nine minutes of her free life pass and she hears a ruckus outside.

“WHY THE  _ FUCK _ ARE  _ YOU _ HERE!?” She yelled. Her voice was scratchy from disuse, but she held her venom.

“I’m here to collect Miss Bethany Hawke; she’s an apostate mage that cannot stand outside of the Circle--” Knight-Captain Rutherford replied; Mel punched him in the face and would’ve done more; her family stood in the main area, looking extremely disappointed in her as she dropped her fist. She spat on his shoes and he rubbed his cheek as she walked into the house. Rutherford’s lackeys held their swords out for easy access, and he waved them away as he held his bruising cheekbone in his hand.

Mel wasn’t affectionate, either. Despite getting hugged every night just like the rest of them, she avoided touch “without purpose” like Blight-rats avoid sunlight. She stood stiff in front of her family; Mother stood quietly, her face worn thin. Gamlen was distressed; Carver and Garrett looked at Mel, beyond pissed off, so livid that they just might kill her-- but she didn’t speak to any of them.

Her face had that unidentifiable expression.  _ Failure. _ “I found us a fortune,” she whispered, “Big enough of a one that I could buy you six dresses over on a whim.” She gave a smile; it was a carbon copy of their mother’s-- sweet, genuine, careful-- and then she coughed into her elbow, hid her tears well. You had to be her sister to notice.

“There’s nothing you can do,” Bethany placated.

“I’m sorry.” Mel responded automatically-- knee-jerk. If she couldn’t toss the blame onto a worthy institution she hated, she took the blame.

“It’s not your fault.” Bethany replied, fear in her throat.

Mel took her gloves off, reached to her baby sister and held her; she smelled like sweat, steel and if Bethany buried her face into her neck, coconut oil. She sobbed like a baby and Mel held her through it, whispering and patting her hair down, scratched at her back and hugged her tighter than Mel ever did. Like she would disappear into ashes at any moment.

“I’ll find a way to take care of you,” She whispered, like a breeze, into Bethany’s ear before releasing her. She wiped her tears away with her rough fingers, kissed her forehead. Her eyes looked tired, and dry.

“I love you,” Bethany said. Mel said nothing at all, but her chapped lips trembled just enough-- she would cry tonight when no one was looking.

They are not children any longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I headcanon that Garrett and Bethany have anemia; ironically, Garrett is a big ol' blood mage.
> 
> Sidenote: I like to put Bethany in the Circle because of the ~angst~ and because her being a Warden just makes me sad. I'm not saying either is better, though-- a jaded Bethany just REALLY bums me out. And Carver? You'll see :) 
> 
> My Tumblr is @biiitchofcambridge, hmu any time!


	3. iii. mother meets her maker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> she watched it fall, its face fragmented under her blade’s strength.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning for gore because... ew.
> 
> this is also very long, so... strap in babes.

Mel had a dress on; it was high-necked, covered her buff arms and broad chest; for being twenty-eight years old, she’d finally gotten tits. Her dress was long, pooled out behind her a little as she walked; it was slim-fitting, tight on her broad hips and flat stomach. It was blood red, matching her cruel scar across her face. Her curls were done up in a decorative bun, her face powered lightly enough so the fucking nobles would leave her alone; her freckles were still visible, her red hot smile still bright.

Merrill was on one arm; she had a soft green dress, barely ankle length and supple. It was silky, tight in places that counted. It didn’t have sleeves, wrapped around her neck to stay up, but she wore a fennec shawl that she’d hide behind; her bright green eyes glimmered through it when she hid behind it, her black hair down in a slinking black braid. She giggled when Mel tugged her closer by the waist, kept her under her arm and close to her breast just so the leeching nobles at the playhouse knew she was not a toy.

Mel kept Isabela’s hand in her own; Isabela had a navy blue velvet dress decorating her beautiful body; it hung off her shoulders, peeked down to reveal her ample cleavage, hugged to her wide hips and spread into a floor-length mess of pleated gold fabric. She had her hair pulled up into a high bun, gold-and-pearl mesh enclosing her dark brown curls. She slipped under Mel’s arm when she felt like it, slipped away when she wished. Mel didn’t keep her under her arm because she didn’t want to be there, and they worked well that way.

The play was something Antivan; Isabela leaned closer into Mel’s touch when they were in the alcove, drank the complimentary wine with a practiced pirate hand. Merrill giggled when Isabela translated in her rough, dry-from-wine voice. She smelled like spices, her breath heavy with red. Merrill kissed her over Mel’s lap; Mel tugged Merrill into her lap as Isabela kissed her deeper, but edged her to want  _ just a little more… _

The play ended after an eternity of Isabela’s nails tracing dirty words in Rivaini on her inner thigh and Merrill humming dirty Dalish words into her ear as she sighed down her neck. They left in a hurry, back to Mel’s mansion. It was late at night, too early in the day to be considered morning. 

“I love date night.” Merrill decided as she flopped onto the bed. Isabela snuck up in front of her, leaning in between her legs as she tugged her smalls down.

“Me too,” she hummed. Mel was loosing her dress behind her; she slipped the fabric down, her chest exposed from the exquisite dress. She turned to Mel and caught her in a kiss.

“Thank you.” Isabela rested their foreheads together.

“Yes, Mellie, thank you very much,” Merrill used her extra-baby voice. Mel laughed.

“Just do what you want to her, Bela,” Mel sighed, putting her Top voice on. “She was bad, saying all those dirty curses in a language I don’t understand.”

“Mellie, you speak fluent el--” Merrill stopped talking. Isabela was beautiful in everything she did, but she was  _ really _ beautiful between someone’s legs with her head under their dress.

__

_ Dearest family, _

_ Thank you, Mel, for the dress. It’s very nice; I hope to wear it to the next gala that the Circle is allowed to attend. It fits well, too, better than the last one; the last was too tight on my bust. I’m laughing as I’m writing that.  _

_ Truthfully, I’ve been laughing a lot more recently. I’ve met someone in the Circle; he’s a cleaner, but you’d think he was the King. He is funny, he’s good-natured, he pretends not to care but he cares an awful lot. I wouldn’t say this without legitimate intent, but I think he’s our brother.  _

_ His name is Jasper; he is Elvhen. He looks exactly like Father, but with pointy ears. He laughs like him, too. I nearly started crying when he started talking; his voice is close enough to Father’s to miss him even more.  _

_ He’s been helping me with my hair, watching Templars around my students while I’m busy, teaching me about Kirkwall. He knows things we don’t, and I think he could be a help to our friends, how to keep safe from the cruel. He said he’d be in the Alienage all this week, something about a festival? Please meet him; you’ll understand what I mean.  _

_ Carver and I have been sitting with each other at meals, or we did a lot until the Knight-Captain pulled us aside and gave us a warning. He is bad at being subtle. I don’t like him much, and he stares often. Please don’t go punching him in the face, however. It makes things worse for Carver.  _

_ Garrett, because I know you’re reading this, please stop sending me chocolates with Sebastian’s name attached. I wrote him and asked him, and he responded that he had no idea. I don’t like looking like a fool, especially in front of a prince. Please avoid that, if only for my sake.  _

_ Mother— I am healthy and well. I learned more spells and have many apprentices. They are very bright children! Often, they sneak into my quarters at night and sleep beside me while I am “sleeping”; I know they are there, and I’m much too kind to put the dears out. Most haven’t seen their families since the day they were brought in— isn’t that cruel?  _

_ Tell Gamlen and Pup that I said hello! Please send Bodahn and his son my regards and tell the gang I said hi! _

_ Deepest affections and care, _

_ Enchanter Bethany Hawke _

__

“You’re coming to sup, right?” Garrett asked the table at the Hanged Man. Varric sighed, leaned back into the chair and rolled his head before nodding slowly, his lips puckered out.

“Only if Mistress Amell makes me some cake.” Varric stood and stretched. They’d been day drinking all day, playing cards and telling half-assed horror stories.

“She’s been baking all day,” Garrett offered. The pair stood to leave.

“Coming, Fenris?” Garrett asked over his shoulder. He had exactly one grey curl, despite being on the older side of twenty-seven.

“Didn’t think I was invited,” Fenris gruffed, still nose-deep in his cup. He finished his cup in a slow gulp and he stood. He was steady, surefooted and sarcastic; Garrett held his hand out teasingly.

“Come on, honey,” he wiggled his fingers. Fenris scoffed, but caught up and slipped his hand into Garrett’s easily enough. Varric pretended he wasn’t a perfect height to stare at their entwined fingers; instead, he paid their tab and led the way to the Amell Estate.

Carver was sitting at the dining table when the group walked in. He looked like Mel did when she was sleepy; soft at her hardened edges. He straightened and swiped the sleep from his pretty blue eyes, giving Garrett a resigned smile. They didn’t hug because they never really did, but Garrett clasps his brother’s arm in affection.

“Little brother,” Garrett grinned, flicked his pierced ears. Carver groaned, swatted his brother’s hands away.

“I’m only out for today, don’t make me smack your ass into the ground,” he teased. Templar service calmed him enough to refine his craggy edges, making him more of his own man. He wasn’t much of a scrapper anymore, either. He doesn’t have any blooming bruises or scratches or scars. He’s clean-faced, and Garrett can thank that  _ fucked up  _ organization for that.

“Oh, you’d never do that,” Garrett caught him in a noogie; Varric laughed as Carver reached and twisted his nipple; Fenris got a good laugh when Garrett made an incredibly fake, high-pitched moan before they straightened; Carver laughed, slapped his brother in the pec.

“Oh, you,” Garrett went after his brother. Garrett was the reigning champ of titty tag.

“Supper will be done soon,” Leandra called from at the end of the dining room, where the kitchen doors peeked open.

“Okay, Ma!” Garrett called. He had Carver in a headlock; Carver had his hands mid-swipe at Garrett’s chest.

“I invited Aveline and Sebastian, please go fetch them?” She yelled back. The brothers released each other.

Varric groaned, rolled his eyes before he mimed praying. Fenris laughed lightly, watched Garrett curse silently. Carver pulled his lower eyelids down and stuck his tongue out; he and Sebastian barely got along on  _ good _ days.

“Sure, Ma!” Garrett responded.

The boys walked up to the Chantry; Carver was sullen-faced as ever, nodded to the people who waved and smiled. Nobles loved a man in uniform, but they especially loved him  _ out _ of it.

They all smiled and waved at Garrett, who was good at smiling and waving back. He had his kindhearted smile on; Varric nearly gagged himself laughing so hard.

“Fuck, you’re worse than Choir Boy,” he chuckled, wiping his tears away. Fenris loomed in the background like a spiky menace, but he kept his mouth soft enough that Garrett thought he was trying to be friendly.

“Oh, you fuckin’ love it,” Garrett teased, tickled at Varric’s broad chin like you would a prized show dog; Varric gave him stink-eye, annoyed that it would be too much of a low-blow to punch him in his crown jewels.

“Hawke?” Sebastian called; he was wearing his civvies, no lacquered armour to be seen. He was handsome with a white tunic on, his green woollen pants emphasizing the ginger in his auburn hair. His eyes seemed to glow in his face, like Fenris’, but less menacing. He straightened from where he was artfully leaning, like some forgotten god. If Garrett thought he could sway the brother in his vows, he’d give it a college try.

“Yes, Choir Boy, Mama sent me for you,” Garrett teased, looped his big arm around Sebastian’s slender shoulders and squeezed him into a half-threatening side hug before bounding down to the Keep, Fenris and Carver hot on his tail as they raced.

“Why is it always the archers that get left behind?” Sebastian tried for a joke; Varric laughed politely, but that was more of a sting than anything-- Varric, although generous and fair, was not overly polite. Streetsmart and business savvy, sure, but polite? No.

They followed behind the whooping boys, silence stretching them further apart. Varric couldn’t trust a man that didn’t have a weakness, or worse, a fault.

“Guess what?” Sebastian said suddenly, completely unlike himself and his lilting,  _ good Chanter’s tones _ .

“What?” Varric asked. Sebastian flashed his torso; his freckled brown chest, besides being dusted with auburn chest hair, had gold flashing in his nipples.

“ _ Now _ can we be friends?” Sebastian begged, his cheeks flaming red as he tugged his shirt down, thankful for the empty streets.

Varric laughed like his lungs would give out if he didn’t; “Oh,  _ Choir Boy _ , I’m so proud of you. That’ll be a story to tell,” He chortled some more, nudged Sebastian’s elbow.

“Bet I could beat you at darts.” Varric grinned, his eye tooth capped in gold. Sebastian sighed with relief.

“Bet I’ll hold my own,” He replied.

“Not in front of Leandra!” Varric acted appalled, covering his crotch with his hands. Sebastian groaned.  _ Was this friendship? _

__

Mel kissed Merrill, watched her pink as Bela unlocked the back door for Bethany.

“I don’t want to get into trouble--” Bethany worried, a cloak hiding her person. It was Mel’s, so it was far too broad and just a bit too long.

“You won’t; what are they going to do, come  _ fight  _ me?” Mel laughed. She pinched her sister’s cheek.

“I couldn’t keep you from the Circle, but I’ll be damned if I can’t steal you for a night. Go, enjoy yourself.” Mel hugged her little sister, felt how skinny she’d become, kissed her forehead and rubbed her shoulders as Bela opened the door for her.

“Go on in, sweet thing,” Bela smiled, her teeth glimmery. Merrill gave Bethany a hug; she was a huggy person to boot, but how she circled her arms meant she was genuine. Mel smiled in pride; her baby sister walked into the house, was met with a chorus of cheers. Mel chewed her bottom lip, turned to Isabela.

“Want to go find a fight somewhere?” Bela grinned. Merrill tugged on Mel’s arm, her wide green eyes asking questions.

“Alienage, first?”

Mel was the last to meet their half-brother. Garrett spoke highly of him, Bethany adored him, Carver thought he was okay. Truth be told, Mel didn’t want to see her father incarnate. She didn’t want to be reminded he had a son first, that she wasn’t the Hawke first-born anymore. But Merrill pushed her to do better, and Isabela wouldn’t leave it be until it was right.

He took court in the Alienage tavern, telling stories to elvhen teenagers too skinny to grow much more as he fed them all rice and beans from the bar. He was expressive in his movements, akin to how Garrett waves his hands constantly; but he has  _ that _ smile, that  _ shit-eating fucking grin. _ There was no way he  _ wasn’t _ a Hawke, either; he had the same bulbous nose bridge they all had, the same curls, the same broad-beef build. The only difference was he had nubs on his ears and his eyes glowed too vibrant of a blue to be considered human.

“So, you’re the last sister I’ve got to meet?” He asked, his voice a pleasant timbre. He shooed the kids away; they turned with a curious groan, but left; Merrill waved them goodbye, and they waved farewell to her. Everyone knew who Merrill was in the Alienage.

“I s’pose,” Mel said. She stood awkwardly; she was wearing full armour, her greatsword strapped to her back. Her half-brother wore a loose tunic and some trousers, feet devoid of shoes. He fit right in with the locals; only the rich and immigrated wore shoes year round.

“Well,  _ Mythal _ , sit down. I’ll get something to drink for us,” he shot her a smile. It was so much like her--  _ their _ \-- late father’s, it was astounding.

Isabela held Mel’s hand the whole time they talked; Merrill danced around the barroom, asking questions when Mel’s unpracticed tongue became slack. She eventually sat on Mel’s lap, her nose stuck behind Mel’s cutting jawbone. Unlike her full siblings, Mel didn’t have to explain her relationship. He just understood it. He was annoying like the rest of them, too. Mel didn’t understand him; he was laidback with everything, took everything in stride.

She found she liked him enough to call him  _ brother  _ at the end of the visit.

__

Leandra is forty-eight. For one night, she pretends she has the world in her pocket. She’s got a fancy dress on, like the ones she grew up wearing, with Gamlen at her side and her children and their friends filling the table. Her eldest, Marian, is not present; Leandra knows Mel resents her, and Leandra knows she wishes her daughter would be different, but she loves her, and wishes she had come to the table. 

The air is full of food and wine. Garrett sits at the end of the table, talking heartily and smiling wider. He is handsome and he looks so much like his father she holds her breath sometimes. He is what she loved about Malcolm; he is funny, he is light, he is faithful and fresh of hatred. 

Varric is on his fourth piece of cake; Sebastian is on his third. They are competing to see who can eat more cake, and Varric is winning. Sebastian is used to Chantry portions, which are as giving as nobles to tax-collectors. He’s thin in the stomach, a hard line. Leandra likes talking to him very much; he always sits beside her on Sundays when Garrett isn’t there. He is like another son she never thought to ask for. She cares for him very much, loves to pinch his cheek and watch him blush as he chews forlornly on his fourth and final piece of cake.

Bethany is here, sitting between Sebastian and Aveline. Aveline is pink in the face from so much wine; Fenris had challenged her to a drinking game and she was sorely losing, but Leandra loves watching them act young and foolish. She is pushing fifty and she feels old. Her hair is all grey now, her eyes permanently wrinkled and her mouth drying from its wet, kissable youth-- but she wouldn’t trade her years for anything, especially in these moments.

Carver’s shoulders are relaxed, and he is laughing at a joke Gamlen made. He reminds her of Gamlen when he laughs; Gamlen says something else funny, and Carver’s face turns dark red as he laughs harder, his eyes watering. The twins are a lighter brown, but their hair curls tighter. She watches Bethany blush when she starts talking to the Prince, watches how his cheeks turn pink, too.

Leandra sighs to herself;  _ They are not children any longer. _ She smiles, pats Varric’s hand as he compliments her cake. There’s another for him, this time with chocolate frosting, still in the kitchen. 

“To Mother!” Bethany toasts; Mel, Isabela and Merrill cheer behind her, Malcolm’s bastard in tow. He gives her a shy little wave, and she leaves her chair to take his face in her hands; they are carbon-copied, save his pointed ears and bright blue eyes. But she smiles softly at him, opens her arms and motions to the table where Garrett squishes over and pats the seat. He smiles brokenly, surprised that he was allowed. She brings him a plate of food as she rests a hand on his shoulder, which he smiles appreciatively at. He looks so much like his father...

Leandra is complete. She wishes Malcolm could see what she sees, finds solace in the fact that he does, somewhere and somehow.

__

_ She’s gone. There’s nothing we could’ve done. Her service is at the Chantry this Sunday at high noon. Please bring Bethany if you can help it. _

_ ~Mel _

__

Garrett has a very low alcohol tolerance, which is funny because he’s a huge guy; he drinks four ales and he’s drunk. He downs half a bottle of wine and he’s damn-near wasted. 

He’s laying in his bed, three bottles of wine down and three more to go. He’s not home but in some shitty inn somewhere on the edges of the city. He’s been wallowing for a week and there’s nothing he’d rather do. After Mother’s funeral, he took off with his coin purse and staff. Mel can take care of this death, he took care of the first.

He halfway wants someone to come save him and take him home, wrap him up in a blanket and let him mope in their arms, but no one knows where he is. No one wants to save him; Garrett is the one that saves everyone, without fault, and asks for nothing in return. Mel will not come looking for him, knows him well enough when he needs his time alone-- she’s probably locked herself in her room and is crying right now, but in her terrible silent way. Mel is loud and brazen until she is vulnerable-- then she is so quiet you forget she’s there.

Garrett wishes he was like her, but he’s not. He’s too impatient to hold anything in, likes to just cry and get over with it so he can be happy again; but how can he be happy if he has no rock to lean on?

He remembers her disembodied head attached to another’s body. He remembers how jauntily she moved, how scary her face had sagged with rot. She was not his beautiful mother anymore, and he knew she was dead from the moment he saw her. He kept thinking of how she used to rub his back when he was sick, right up until the last time he had the flu, or when his blood sickness got bad. He remembers how warm her blue eyes were, how she smelled like olive oil and honey; she used to hold him in her lap and read to him, right up until he was eleven and her height. 

Garrett groans, rolls over into bed and stares at the stained cotton sheets. She still used to make his bed every morning, and had done so the day she died. She loved to kiss Sebastian’s cheeks and mother him; she loved to buy Fenris clothes, watch him pink with thanks as he thumbed at the soft tunics and leggings. She gave him a haircut once; she liked cutting hair and usually kept Aveline’s cropped haircut crisp for her. Garrett was crying again; his mother would never rub lavender oil behind his ears before he went to bed ever again, she’d never make another cake, she’d never get to grow saggy and old and hold her grandchildren. She’d never watch any of her children get married, she’d never see Sebastian retake his throne, never  _ really  _ get to know Jasper…

Time must’ve passed. Garrett didn’t really know. He rolled over again; it was midnight. He went and opened his window, breathed in the fresh air and watched his skin goosepimple in the cold. He had puked all over his shirt, so it laid in a bucket of water the maids left in front of his door. He requested new bed linens and had the maids change them; he smelled fresh cotton sheets and tried to not start sobbing. He cried into the limp pillow, thinking of how he used to hide behind the drying clothes with Mel when he was small, how their mother made it into a game. How she was the best mother he could ever ask for.

There was a knock on his room door. “Occupied,” he groaned out.

They knocked again; “Fuck off, would you?” Garrett called.

They knocked a third time. Garrett rolled out of bed, threw his door open--

“It’s time to come home,” Fenris said; he was wearing his spiky armour, but with the upgrades that Sebastian had given him. He glimmered in places and sucked the light in others. That imbalanced equilibrium reminded Garrett that Fenris always did what was unexpectedly best for him and never did what he wanted, really.

“I’m really drunk.” Garrett answered after a moment. Fenris couldn’t help but chuckle; Garrett was the only person that ever  _ really  _ made him laugh.

“I can see that,” he smiled, looking up at Garrett’s eyes. Then, the dam broke, and Garrett started crying again. Fenris offered his arms out awkwardly, like Merrill showed him how to, and Garrett took him into his wingspan. Garrett was always cold, a nod to his prefered ice and lightning magic; Fenris never said anything, but he liked how Garrett’s cold hands made his too-warm brands manageable. Fenris patted his back lightly, careful of his sharp gauntlets and hard breastplate.

Garrett released him after a moment, looking broken and alone. “Please don’t make me leave just yet.” His chin wobbled, his nose bright red and eyes puffy.

Fenris sighed, pushed past him and into Garrett’s pitiful room. He took his gauntlets off, motioned to the rickety table in the corner.

“Cards?” He gave Hawke his only smile; it was tight and awkward, but Hawke nearly started blubbering all over again. Fenris never smiled.

__

Mel is the better part of twenty-nine years old; she has dealt with more than enough shit from everyone her entire life; her mother telling her to silence herself, her sister and brother getting the shit end of the stick because they can sneeze and accidentally frost someone’s geraniums-- Garrett has hay fever every Bloomingtide-- her baby brother being told he’ll never be good enough because he’s too much; she was tired of the world saying Isabela was ugly because she was thick in the stomach and dark like the prettiest obsidian statue, and she was  _ exhausted _ with  _ everything _ when someone said Merrill was  _ evil. _ Mel hates templars, but her baby brother is one and she has to stop Templar Hunting because she doesn’t want to stumble on his platoon, but they’re getting worse--

She’s tired of nobles saying she’s too brash, that her freckles and leather-beaten brown skin are a sign of poor people, that her hands are too rough to be as rich as she is-- she’s tired of Viscount Dumar giving her eyes when she’s asked in to deal with the Arishok, she’s tired of having to calm Anders down again and again because he’s spread himself too thin and  _ no one _ will help him but the Hawkes-- Mel is tired of watching Sebastian get yelled at as Elthina guilts him for enjoying  _ life _ \--

Mel is fucking  _ done _ with being called a man by the Arishok. Fenris explained their outlook on gender, and Mel gets it, but she  _ hates it _ . She is a woman, she is a girl, she is  _ she. _ She was taunted her whole life for looking too much like a boy with her big shoulders and crooked nose, she--

The city is burning, and Mel is tempted to let it  _ fucking rot. _

She fights through qunari, sellswords, thugs, punks, Carta-- she has more little fleshwounds than freckles at this point and she’s  _ tired. _ Isabela and Merrill and Anders are nearly done; they are not warriors trained in stamina, but rogues and mages trained in dodging and high-damage. She wishes she could bleed herself raw for her friends-- so they could find strength and push forward. 

She was taught a trick by a warrior when she was in Ostagar-- he was angry, like her--  _ “It’s bloodletting; I let them cut me, watch my ichor stain my skin and the earth; it’s like blood magic, but I am not magical. The blood is powerful; we are drenched in our enemies and we will persevere.” _

She remembers watching him get his arm cut off, how he used his blood to spur him on; he did not stop until his body was blue with death and his leathers held more  _ ichor _ than his body.

“How are we doing?” She asked. Isabela puked, Merrill was gulping down lyrium, Anders was seconds from passing out.

“Cut me, Merrill,” Mel demanded. Mel had  _ never  _ yelled at Merrill once. 

“Why?” She asked, her eyes wide.

“We have no stamina. Cut me and give us some,” Mel stared forward, strangely focused. Merrill pulled out her knife, carved a soft line in her forearm and pulled the blood into a spell; in a moment, Isabela’s green face cleared, Anders’ stance gained strength and Merrill’s eyes glowed with warmth. Mel felt her burning exhaustion only, as she had before.

“That was weird,” Merrill said.

“Why?” Mel asked.

“No demon,” She looked at her hands; Anders stumbled over and healed her cut into a faded scar.

“We don’t have time to dawdle,” he responded, new-found strength in his voice. Isabela pointed to a staircase and they took off.

__

Garrett is nearly twenty-nine years old. His body doesn’t bend the way it used to; when he’s dueling the Arishok, he feels his body tremble with fear and his shitty knees groan in anticipation. Fenris is watching from the stairs; Garrett catches glimpses to see how he’s shifting with anticipation. Sebastian has three arrows nocked and Varric is grinding his teeth.

The Arishok is barely winded but Garrett’s nearly puking; he’s dry on lyrium and has no hope in the world. But Mel comes to his rescue, like she always does.

“This is a duel!” He bellows as Mel charges in. She jumps into the air and thrashes her greatsword down onto his parry; he throws her, but she lands on her knees.

“Fuck your duel!” She bellowed back, throwing herself into battle again. She had a red aura around her, like she sucked the hate out of the air and used it as stamina… Garrett barely got a second to think before a sten raised his huge sword and charged at him.

Mel fought until blood was leaking from her mouth; she was working herself to the maximum and when she had no strength, she stole lyrium from Anders’ belt and chugged it, feeling the liquid burn her throat; she raised her sword and thought hard about how the earth hurt, how it was solid. She felt pulling in her guts, knew she was starting to smite; she held it until her eyes vibrated with the effort, then she released; she knocked back all of the Arishok’s personal guard, made him pause long enough for Garrett to throw a lightning bolt so strong it made his eyeballs explode.

The Arishok turned wildly, stabbed the first person he could smell that was human-- Mel watched as Garrett was raised over the Arishok, his stomach bleeding down onto the Arishok’s blade, how it dripped down his arm…

Mel felt that burning ache in her legs; her lungs felt like they caught fire-- she jumped, caught the Arishok in a deathlock and sliced his arm off, watched her brother fall with the splintered sword blade stuck in his guts; she turned to the blinded Arishok, stabbed him in the chest until the blood ran red-black with potency-- she sliced his throat for good measure, threw her greatsword at the Saarebas at the top of the stairs; she watched it fall, its face fragmented under her blade’s strength.

She fell down beside her brother, cupped his paled face in her bloody hands. 

“I’m sorry,” she choked, spit a bloody tooth out over her shoulder.

“You look like a hick,” he coughed, pointed to her missing eye tooth. She laughed wetly, tears in her eyes.

Anders settled beside them; well, Justice, really. Justice set his hands on Garrett’s stomach.

“Not enough lyrium…” He grumbled. Fenris fell beside Anders, pressed shoulder to shoulder.

“Use mine!” He barked, ears narrowed and eyes fearful. He glowed like a nightlight-- Garrett reached up, put a bloody hand on Fenris’ neck, lovesick in his eyes. Fenris had tears in his eyes-- Mel had never seen him cry before, not even when he broke his leg.

Mel stumbled back; Merrill took her place, Jasper hot on her tail. He pulled the sword from their brother, compressed the wound and helped heal him, too. Isabela grabbed Mel from behind, forced her face into the crook of her shoulder as Garrett died slowly; Mel hugged Isabela tightly as she sobbed into her neck, the first time she’d ever cried in front of her. Mel could almost feel his soul start to leave, but she bit her cheek, felt the blood pool in her mouth. He would never die in her reality.

They are not children any longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something I've been turning over in my head a lot is in the World of Thedas chapter for Carver they specified he was "too anchored in his own reality and the world to be magic" or something like that... Is it possible for there to be another kind of magic? Could this relate to Templar powers or the Guardian Spirit specialization in Awakening (I just started playing and it's VERY good!) Also: I think Reavers are the Blood Mages of warriors and cannot explain why or be convinced otherwise.
> 
> Another note: I want Merrill and Fenris to be buds, so they are. He and Anders came to a mutual agreement. Maybe I'll write a spinoff fic. The boys are NOT allowed to be mean to the elfy wife.


	4. iv. i will always love you how i do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I guess we aren’t children anymore, are we?” He asks. The sea breeze swirls his curls around; they are short, just how he likes them. Mel is half standing but she refuses anyone’s help to stand fully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the chapter title is from 'godspeed' by frank ocean. sad gay/bisexual hours babey.
> 
> content warning for described self-harm mention and gore, too. exercise caution, my dudes, this chapter is also SUPER long.

Mel is thirty-two. By the time her parents were in their thirties, they had four children and were over half-way through their lives.

“Hawke, just because your brother is the Champion does not mean you get to call Knight-Commander Stannard a--” Aveline hollered.

“--A snivelling, pathetic, bootlicking  _ cunt? _ And why not?” Mel sat her teacup down nonchalantly as she bounced her son in her lap. Leander started to cry.

“Mum, why is Avie yelling?” He sniffled. Aveline sighed.

“Hawke, I’m not pissing around,  _ please _ just apologize. Publicly.” Aveline shot an embarrassed look to the sobbing toddler and left the dining table, her armour clanking lightly behind her. Isabela danced their daughter, Vara, around the kitchen. They’d torn down the separating wall because they didn’t see much use in it; none of them ever supped as their mother did. She watched her lover’s too-big tunic wave around at her thighs as she fried eggs for Merrill, who was attempting to breastfeed their other daughter, Malachai.

“Merrill, she won’t suckle, she’s two--” Mel tried to offer, but Merrill shot her a desperate, red-rimmed look.

“She’s  _ my _ baby,” she sniffed; Malachai cried out, pushed away from Merrill’s chest. Her horns were having a growth spurt again and all the horn balm they could find was too hard on her skin. She was hanging out of her arms and crying in her  _ Fuck off, I’m annoyed  _ way. 

“She’s also six seconds away from ripping your titty off,” Mel shot back.

Vara cried out, “Milk!” She was straining towards Merrill; she was the possessive baby.

“Andraste’s ass, Merrill, take your demon-child,” Isabela sighed, rubbed her nose with Vara’s before they switched kids. Malachai tangled her fingers into Isabela’s hair and cooed; as long as Malachai  _ released _ , Isabela found no trouble with it.

Merrill began to breastfeed Vara, who was nearly big around as her  _ momae. _ Mel did not say that, though-- Merrill would probably kick her to the sofa again. She babied the kids worse than anyone she knew, and as much as Merrill wanted to deny the fact that the kids were growing, she’d be surpassed in size rather quickly; Vara was as tall as a human four-year-old and she was only two. She dangled in Merrill’s lap, her knees scraped from falling off her pony. 

“Mum?” Leander said. 

“Leander?” Mel asked back. Leander pulled at her shirt.

“No way, kid, you’re three. And I’m the wrong pair of ditties to ask.” Mel pulled her shirt back up over her cleavage and put him into his highchair. He sighed forlornly like Garrett did when he didn’t get his way. Isabela snorted; as a trio, they tried to keep Leander’s attitude in check, as he was a little shit just like his Momma and Uncle-- they tried to keep from laughing at him because it only spurred him on.

There was a noise at the stairs; Fenris was walking down them and was wearing Garrett’s house robe, his bare legs glowing like crystal.

“Look who was allowed out of the sex dungeon!” Mel teased. Fenris blushed.

“He wants breakfast--” his eyes fell on Merrill, who sat completely shirtless. “Merrill, this is  _ not  _ the  _ woods  _ where you can have your  _ breasts  _ out!” He covered his eyes angrily to make his point. 

“Speak for yourself,” Isabela sighed breezily as she settled Malachai into her highchair with a quick kiss to the head as she sashayed her way over to Fenris-- she grabbed his nipples through the robe and twisted them and he grabbed at her, trying to get away from her iron fingers.

“ _ Kaffas! _ I give in!” He hollered; Isabela released him, stuck her tongue out in victory before she went and sat beside Merrill and kissed her on the cheek. Merrill rolled her eyes tiredly.

“Were you expecting a big, fat kiss?” She teased; Isabela tilted her head, eyebrow cocked. She leaned over, minding their daughter, and kissed her lover. Isabela stood, pulled the robe from behind Merrill’s back and draped it around her shoulders. Merrill cooed at Vara as she pulled the robe around her in a cocoon and successfully covered her unmarked chest.

“Kaffas! Kaffas!” Leander hollered. Merrill shot Fenris a withering look, which he looked away from. Bela bit her lip as she flipped the eggs, attempting at composure.

_ “Diana mah, da’len,” _ Merrill chided. Leander sighed forlornly; Mel saw Fenris stifle his laughter.

“Well, shit, I’m missing out on the action!” Garrett called over the railing; he hopped over the side, rattling the chandelier. He had a particular pep to his step-- Mel wanted to tease him about getting his bell rung last night, but decided against it-- Merrill got mad when there were too many sex jokes in front of the kids.

He slipped his arm around Fenris and they kissed sweetly like they hadn’t just spent the last fourteen hours in a room fucking like rabbits.

“Insatiable?” Mel said as she stood to go get the baby food.

“It’s a family trait,” he winked. Isabela and Merrill howled with laughter.

Leander, not wanting to miss his chance, yelled “Shit!”

Garrett’s laugh could be heard all through Hightown.

__

Mel was walking about Hightown on her usual rounds when she saw Carver on duty. He looked like he was four pant sizes too skinny to be  _ that  _ tall; Mel began towards him to go talk to him when the Bootlicker appeared from a shop and began to bark orders. Mel stopped; her armour and greatsword like a bright heat on her back. She wanted to crush Stannard under her boot like the self-righteous grub she was; her brother saluted to her dutifully, went into the shop and a scuffle began. A defeated man, a mage that Mel bought earrings from, was pulled out by his hackles and dropped at her feet. Carver looked bored. Mel knew he was keeping himself from crying with that detached look. She’d done the same thing when they were mercs. 

__

“I’M GOING TO LOSE MY FUCKING JOB BECAUSE YOU CAN’T PUT YOUR MAKER-FORSAKEN PRIDE DOWN FOR A FUCKING APOLOGY TO THE MOST POWERFUL WOMAN IN  _ KIRKWALL! _ SHE COULD INDUCT MERRILL IN MOMENTS FOR A FUCKING  _ JOKE! _ ” Aveline hollered.

“THAT’S WHY I’M  _ NOT _ FUCKING APOLOGIZING! SHE HAS  _ NO _ RIGHT TO TAKE PEOPLE AND THROW THEM INTO PRISONS BECAUSE THEY FART ICE CUBES, YOU  _ TRAITOR _ . THAT IS MY  _ WIFE. _ ” Mel hollered back.

“I HAVE NO CHOICE IN THIS! JUST FUCKING APOLOGIZE!” Aveline threw her hands up in exasperation. 

“FUCK OFF, AVELINE!” Mel hollered again, aiming for Aveline’s office door; she was missing Malachai’s hearing appointment for  _ this. _

“HAWKE, I’LL TELL GARRETT AND CARVER WHAT YOU DID ON THAT MOUNTAIN.” She sniped back, her voice dropping in volume but heightening in strength; she went from PREACHY to COMMANDING. Aveline got a satisfied look in her eye; Mel’s perfect  _ Fuck off _ face had dropped naked. 

Mel was silent as she took Aveline by the throat and threw her down onto the floor of the Keep; Aveline was a woman-shaped battering ram, sure, but Mel was a bloodletting, soul-smiting son of a  _ bitch _ who would sell her soul for--

“THREATS ARE FOR CROOKS,” Mel screamed in Aveline’s face. She was losing air, flailing her arms wildly. Her face was redder than her hair. Mel could squeeze just a little harder, crush her windpipe in a moment. Then she thought of that  _ fucking _ mountain. 

“I’ll apologize.” She said shortly. She rushed out of the Keep, her skin itching like ants were crawling in her bone marrow.

__

“I, Mel Hawke, Templar Killer of Kirkwall, apologize for calling Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard a ‘snivelling, pathetic, bootlicking cunt’,” Mel said to Hightown. She’d never apologized her entire life, especially not to Templars. The Knight-Commander stood in the back, a cruelly satisfied smile pressed to her face. She gleefully accepted the apology, shook Mel’s hand; she gave her brother a look, as a lioness would stare down a baby stag. Garrett ducked into the estate and hid for a few hours. Everyone knew the Champion was a mage. 

Mel promised herself that she’d find a way to end the Bootlicker’s tyranny that day, with her hand clasped in her own. Mel was good at keeping promises.

__

Darktown was bathed in twilight; only the mage fire torches lit the way around, but Mel could navigate this shithole with her eyes closed; she’d been stitched up enough to know how to get to Anders’. But she wasn’t coming with hanging limbs or oozing scrapes-- she was coming to check on her healer.

Anders was inconsistent in everything except healing. He could be in his lowest low, a two-week beard and unwashed tunic clinging to him like moss, but if there was a refugee with their guts spilling out, he’d scrub his fingernails clean and squash them back together…  _ for free. _ He was too good for this rathole and Mel couldn’t help herself but give a shit.

“Hey, Andy!” She called. He was sitting at his measly desk, ink splotches staining his face. He’d been writing his manifesto; his eyes were far too blue to be fully his own.

_ “Hawke,” _ Justice gruffed. Then Anders’s body went slack, and his light brown eyes faded into themselves.

“And Garrett!” Garrett chuckled from behind Mel. 

“Hey, guys,” he replied tiredly. He had bruise-like eyebags and his nose looked more crooked than usual.

“How’re you, healer-of-mine?” Garrett asked as he flopped into the wicker chair in the corner. Mel leaned against the beam that separated his quarters from the hospital.

“Tired,” Anders went for a chuckle, but it was too mournful to be genuine.

“Where’s the brother?” Mel asked.

“He went out to close the tavern, he should be back soon.” He looked back down to his manifesto and sighed before he stood up.

“So, you apologized to Stannard,” Anders said. Accusation coloured his face, but his tone remained neutral if a little grainy from exhaustion.

“Aveline reminded me that she could induct my wife. I’m not chancing that.” Mel ground her teeth, “But I plan to upseat her if I can help it. Her Knight-Captain and Carver share quarters.”

“Knight-Captains have their own quarters,” Anders replied, confusion dancing on his tongue.

“Not when Carver requires constant surveillance. He was acquitted for being suspected in releasing inducted children before they were to complete their Harrowing.” Garrett responded, “So they put him in a room with Rutherford to keep an eye on him in case he ever did it again.” He ran his big hands over his curls; they’d greyed more considerably. His hair was salt and pepper now, despite being just into his thirties.

“I always knew I liked Carver,” Anders said as he slipped back into his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. “How’s Bethany doing?” He settled tiredly.

“She’s not eating much,” Mel answered, “She told me that ever since the Alrik fiasco she’s been uninterested in food.” She had that expression she saved for talking about Bethany; it made Anders’ neck itch.

He scoffed, “If I had a Templar leeching after me to get fattened up before he came and visited me in the night--”

_ “We aren’t revisiting that,”  _ Garrett interrupted, “it gives me the willies. And he’s dead now, so it’s fine.” He turned sideways in the chair; the reeds squeaked together with effort.

Anders chewed his cheek for a second. Mel’s eyes flashed. _Don’t_ _push it._ “What’s your idea with Rutherford?” 

“He’s easy to boss around.” Mel said, “I think he’s unsure that he has autonomy as Knight-Captain.”

“Or he doesn’t give a sweet fuck,” Garrett chorused.

“OR,” Mel intoned, sending her brother a dirty look, “that means that we can use that as an advantage.”

“Isn’t he scared shitless of you?” Anders frowned. “And didn’t he sanction your…?” He painted a line across his face with his finger.

“Sure, he did,” Mel shrugged, but she got that twitchy look in her lip that meant she was lying at her nonchalance, “And who isn’t shitting their trousers when I storm in?” Mel frowned back sarcastically. “Besides, I was thinking we could get Pretty Boy,” she thumbed to her brother, “to warm him up to our cause.”

“I’m not suckin’ his dick, if that’s where you’re hammerin’,” Garrett squawked as he straightened in his chair. His Fereldan accent was thick when he was mad.

“Oh, for--  _ Fuck off, Garrett, _ ” She ordered impatiently. She turned back to Anders, “I was thinking that Garrett starts talking to him at taverns and stuff, gets him warmed up to us enough. I don’t know if we can stage a coup with my reputation,” she snickered cruelly, “but if we can sow enough second-thoughts into the ranks, we could get her ejected.” Her eyes were bright, and she had the pissant little grin all the Hawke’s wore when they won.

Garrett watched as his big sister and Anders started to scheme; Anders knew where all of the biggest Templar haunts were, and Mel had the clout to march in without issue. She would start keeping a look-out for Cullen and once she knew his patterns--

A hand clapped onto his shoulder. If Jasper hadn’t used this move forty-three times already, Garrett would’ve jumped. All he did was turn and shoot his older brother stink-eye. Garrett sometimes forgot he wasn’t the oldest son anymore, and it was weird to him.

Jasper dropped some food in front of Anders, gave him a quick kiss at his temple as Anders tore into the souvlaki and braided honey rolls. Anders grabbed him by the collar and kissed him; Mel made a grossed out noise, helped herself to a bite of the souvlaki and popped a piece of tomato into her mouth. Anders slapped her hands and she tugged on his dorky ears. It was good to see Mel could make friends, as adamantly as she avoided it. Jasper deposited the rest of the food into the cupboard that was too high for the average thief.

Jasper sat on the floor in front of Garrett’s legs; Garrett rolled his eyes as he slid to the floor and nudged his brother. Jasper didn’t have grey hair like him, but he was getting deep lines around his mouth prematurely as their father had.

“Stop staring,” Jasper teased. Garrett rolled his eyes and Jasper nudged him back.

“Can’t help I’m staring at an ugly stink-man,” he teased back. Jasper made a face.

“Do you  _ always  _ smell like that?” He razzed. They shared a laugh.

“How is he?” Garrett whispered, his pretty blue eyes drifting to Anders; he and Mel were laughing in their dorky way.

“He’s more down than up most days, but he’s not going into  _ bad _ episodes,” Jasper whispered back. He smiled lovingly at him.

“How’re you?” Garrett asked. 

“I’m good. Tavern’s not doing too bad, I haven’t been caught for being a  _ little  _ magic, he’s still letting me under his covers.” He nudged his head to Anders.

“How’s Bethany, really?” Garrett asked. “She leaves things from her letters I’m sure.”

“We’re only called in to clean up after Harrowings now,” Jasper responded gravely; “I never see her anymore,  _ Mythal-enansal em’an.” _ He looked skyward and ran his finger down the center of his chest; Garrett knew that meant  _ adahl _ or Tree.

“How’re you and the ‘Vint?” Jasper asked. 

Garrett beamed; “We’re together. He lets me hold his hand and everything.”

“Well, it only took you two eight years to finally swoon at the same time,” Jasper teased, leaned in and pinched his cheek. Garrett swatted his hands away.

“I love him.” Garrett shrugged simply, smiled at Mel and Anders as they laughed at the same time; they were making fun of the Knight-Captain’s terrible resting face.

“I know the feeling,” Jasper sighed. He was affixed to Anders, his cheeks pulled tight in a smile.

“Fuckin  _ sap,” _ Garrett teased as he took his brother under his arm and scrubbed at his scalp with his thick knuckles. Jasper wrestled him away, but Garrett clung to him. Like brothers did.

__

Mel is sitting at the writing desk in the Front Room when she hears a noise at the front door. She does not let them know she can hear them; she slips the letter opener into her palm, waits for the careful steps to come closer…

She turns as she knocks her chair over and drives the letter opener into the attacker’s hip bone, her other hand gripping their shoulder; only then does she look up. She can see his auburn hair and his blue eyes--

“Ack!” He yelled. Mel pulled the letter opener from his hip, dropped it onto the floor as she staunched his wound.

“For fuck’s sake, Sebastian!” She cursed. He leaned on her, blood dripping from between Mel’s fingers.

“I just needed to retrieve something,” he heaved; leave it to the princely archer to get groany about his wounds.

“Well, you could  _ fucking _ knock!” Mel griped as she toed the fallen furniture up with a searching foot; she wrestled him into the desk chair and he held his wound as Mel went and woke up Merrill. Sebastian could hear her mumbling curses the whole way to and back to him.

Merrill descended the stairs dreamily but balked at the sight of a bleeding Sebastian. “What happened? Are you alright?” She dropped to her knees, unbuckled his pants and slid them down enough to get to his wound; his Chantry-issue smalls were baggy and discreet. If he wasn’t pale from blood loss, he’d be blushing. He averted his eyes, ground his teeth.

The air got awkward. “Am I missing something?” Merrill asked. Then she realized.

“Andruil’s ass, you prude! I’m  _ healing  _ you!” Merrill rolled her eyes and cupped her hands over his soft brown skin.

“I  _ gather  _ that,” Sebastian fired back, still looking embarrassed at her touching him. He’d been with the Chantry for so long that he’d probably forgotten what  _ touch, _ no matter how innocent, was like. Poor fucker probably never even got chest-to-chest hugs ‘cause it was too  _ sinful. _

“What did you want?” Mel asked. “You’re more than welcome to steal my shit, I’d just like a warning.” She wiped her hands on her handkerchief, swiped the droplets up from the floor. She licked her thumb and swiped the last of the blood from Sebastian’s flesh before she wiped her letter opener off. She gave her handkerchief to Merrill, who scrubbed her hands clean and set to peer at the scarring flesh-- she was waiting for the scar to fade.

“I, uhm,” he pulled his pants back up and belted them tight. He seemed nervous.

“If you need condoms, there’s a box in the foyer,” she thumbed behind her. Merrill snorted and held her hands up; Sebastian tugged her up to stand.

“Maker, no!” He turned a brighter red.

“Well?” Mel miffed. “It’s two in the morning, Sebastian, there’s not much more to do at night.” Merrill made her way under Mel’s arm. She was always touchy, but at night she practically clung to  _ anyone  _ who’d cuddle her-- including Garrett.

“Oh, piss,” he ruffled his hair, “Your sister keeps talking about a pair of shoes she wants from her rooms; I was going to sneak them in for her the next time I went to the Gallows to lead prayers.” His cheeks were streaked with pink.

“Oh!” Merrill exclaimed, “Her blue boots? They’re very comfy. She loves them!” She measured short boots with her hands helpfully.

“Yes!” He cried exasperatedly, giving her a hopeful smile.

“Go get them, babe?” Mel asked, brushed Merrill’s hair behind her ear. Merrill batted her hand away, scoffed but smiled as she ascended the stairs. They watched her go; Sebastian’s face grew sickly.

“Why are you talking to my sister?” Mel asked bluntly.

Sebastian swallowed, began to move closer-- Mel pushed him back down onto the chair. He sighed, “She and I have been writing on and off since that dinner we met at three years ago.”

“And you never thought to run that by me?” She demanded.

“No, I didn’t.” Sebastian stood; his accent was thicker when he was pissy, “I told your brother, I assumed he would tell you.”

Mel heaved an angry sigh; she pushed Sebastian back down into the seat--  _ “Stay.” _ She growled. 

Mel stomped up the stairs, past her bedroom and a confused Merrill-- Mel swung Garrett’s door open. Thankfully, Fenris was not over tonight and he was sleeping alone and clothed. Pup looked up from his spot at the end of the bed, wiggled his stub of a tail at Mel. She hopped into Garrett’s bed and landed on top of him.

“OOF!” He hollered in his sleep. Mel slapped his face around to wake him up, straddling his ribs. He pushed her off and rubbed his face.

_ “What?”  _ He said, his voice half-working from disuse.

“Wouldn’t it be useful to tell your sister that our  _ divine  _ prince of Starkhaven wants to crawl into  _ our little sister’s  _ smalls?” Mel hissed, a forced grin plastered on her face. Garrett groaned, rubbed his face more viciously.

“Bethany always wanted to be a princess. Who am I to stop her?” He pulled himself up to lean on his elbows.

“The fact that it’s Sebastian, who we used to call  _ Andraste’s little bitch? _ Do you not remember how he questioned Fenris about  _ not  _ turning you in?” Mel criticized.

“Do you not remember Isabela stealing the fucking relic and nearly ditching  _ all  _ of us for it?” Garrett fired back.

“That has  _ nothing _ to do with a Prince pining after our baby sister,” Mel argued; she didn’t raise her voice because she didn’t want to wake the kids up.

“No, but sometimes shit needs to be forgiven. He told me he’d reclaim his throne and take Bethany with him.” Garrett countered.

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Mel scoffed. Garrett gave her a beseeching look. Mel squared her jaw.

“If he breaks her heart,  _ you  _ have to bury the body.” She threatened, rolled out of his bed and marched downstairs.

Merrill was spinning around in Bethany’s boots-- despite Bethany being 5’8, she and Merrill had the same sized feet. She spun into Mel’s arms; Mel held her wife in her hands, gave her a kiss that Merrill sighed into.

“Go keep Bela company?” Mel whispered. Merrill stepped out of Bethany’s boots and kissed Mel again, sent a little wave to Sebastian who returned it helplessly.

Once Merrill was out of earshot, Mel picked up the boots and held them out to Sebastian. He stood and took them carefully as if they were more precious than gold. He beamed at Mel, who grimaced at best.

“I’ll make a promise to you,” Mel said, barring him from leaving, “that as long as you make her happy, I’ll do anything to keep you two together. But,” She got into his face, “you hurt her, you won’t need a reason to keep a Chastity Vow.”

“I wasn’t looking for solicitation, and if you could  _ please _ stop threatening my balls, I’d be obliged.” He seethed but reined himself in. 

“Thank you for the boots.” He smiled thinly. Mel threw him a bone; she smiled back.

“As long as she’s happy,” Mel offered her hand; Sebastian tucked the boots under his arm and took her handshake. Mel pulled him in tight for a hug.

“Take care, Vael,” she whispered softly. She gave him  _ her _ smile, the one her mother paraded every day. Sebastian smiled back, a little in awe at how Mel’s face could contort. He took his leave, locked the door behind him. Mel laughed as she went to blow her candle out.  _ Of course, sweet-cheeked Bethany would have to fall for a choirboy. _

__

Garrett slammed his door shut like he was angry and thirteen again, despite being nearly thirty-two.

“What’s got his panties in a twist?” Mel asked as she scanned the newspaper; she took a deep sip of her coffee. Vara and Malachai were playing with blocks at her feet, Leander pretending to read the paper with his Mum. Isabela slid her knives into their sheaths over the mantle with a pant. Sebastian flopped onto the chesterfield, his luminous armour glinting annoyingly in the sunlight of the second floor.

“He and Fenris got into a tussle today when they met his sister,” Isabela flopped onto the floor; Leander sprung from Mel’s lap and into his Momma’s arms.

“What does his sister have to do with anything?” She asked. Isabela kissed Leander’s cheeks and mouth; he giggled as he hugged her neck tighter; he was partial to clinging to his Momma.

“She brought the Magister with him,” Sebastian reported.

Mel put her newspaper down and her coffee onto the end-table. “He’s alright?”

“He ripped his heart out.” Sebastian lamented but said no more. Malachai gripped at her chest and looked inquisitively at Sebastian. He slipped his gauntlets off and signed  _ Heart _ . She signed back  _ Broke? _

Sebastian nodded. Malachai looked to her Mum. She placed her hands behind her ears and blew her cheeks out. That was her sign for Garrett.

Mel signed back,  _ Garrett is sad. _

Malachai looked at Garrett’s bedroom door, then back at her Mum.

She signed back  _ Fix! _ very quickly, before she stood and toddled to his bedroom door. Sebastian followed after her, most of his armour shed. He still wore his boots on the carpet, the smarmy fuck.

“Was it bad?” Mel asked Isabela. She stood with Leander, walked over and sat into Mel’s lap and kissed her. Vara climbed up into the chair, too, not wanting to miss out on cuddles.

“I love you, baby,” Isabela whispered.

“Bad?” Mel clarified. Isabela nodded. Mel kissed her cheek, pulled her farther up into her lap and cuddled her and their kids all together for a moment. Garrett’s bedroom door unlocked; Malachai charged into Garrett’s room with purpose, Sebastian shadowing her in case Garrett needed to be alone.

“I need to talk to him,” she said after a moment. She slid out from under Isabela with Vara under her arm, laid her down into the chair and Vara onto her lap. Isabela was asleep; Leander held his little finger up to his lips, warned his Mum before he turned back into his Momma’s neck to cuddle her. Vara snuggled into Isabela’s arms and didn’t move from that spot; she loved her Momma’s cuddles almost as much as Momae’s.

Malachai was sitting on Garrett’s lap, patting his cheeks and pressing their foreheads together. She called it her Fix-Hug, something she did with Carver whenever he looked too sad; she did it to Anders once and he started crying. 

Sebastian was leaning on the wall, unsure what to say or do. Mel sat down beside Garrett, folded her legs underneath herself. She tugged on Malachai’s ear; she looked at her Mum and signed,  _ Garrett is broken. I cannot fix him. _ She sadly slipped from his lap and took Sebastian’s hand. They went to go play blocks in the sitting room.

“Wanna talk about it?” Mel asked after a moment. Garrett started crying; his armour was still sticky with blood.

“He wanted to kill his own sister.” He wiped his tears with the back of his hand, his head bowed low. Mel pulled him into a hug; he cried into her chest, his arms low on her waist.

“Why?” Mel inquired softly. She patted his hair down, ran her fingers through his big-bodied curls.

“She brought that  _ fucker _ here,” he cracked, his whole body starting to shiver, “he helped her come here and all she did was  _ hurt _ him!” 

Garrett sat up, looked into Mel’s eyes-- they were glowing red like they did when he used blood magic-- “Of course I had to force him to leave her, it wasn’t her  _ fault!” _

He sobbed, wiped his eyes again, “Now he hates me because I  _ betrayed  _ his trust. I should’ve shut my  _ mouth _ .”

“Or he needs space,” Mel afforded. Garrett looked at her like she was stupid.

Mel held him at arms-length, “Remember how after Bela had Leander she fucked off for two years?” Her eyes were hard. Those two years were the quietest Mel had ever been. This was the first time she ever willingly brought it up, too.

“Yeah,” Garrett sighed brokenly.

“She needed her space. And Merrill and I waited for her. And she came back, Garrett. Because she loved us that much.” Mel tilted her head, looked further into her brother’s eyes.

“He’ll come back to you. It’s obvious he loves you; he’s acting irrationally now because he’s just ended his entire reason for  _ all _ of his trauma. That’s  _ huge. _ He just needs his space for a day or two.” Mel rubbed his cheek with her hand, thumbed his tears away. Garrett grabbed her wrist, held it there. Their mother would do the same thing to him.

“Where would I be if I didn’t have you?” He whispered. Mel stood from his bed, kissed his forehead. Thought of that hilltop and how she’d do it a million times over.

“I love you,” she said. He echoed it back to her.

“Please be kind and leave your dirty armour by the door. I’ll send Orana in to change your bedsheets. Do you want dinner? Merrill and I are making baked potatoes and beefsteak.” Mel asked at the doorway.

“Sure,” he whispered. He started unbuckling his armour as Mel closed the door behind her. 

“Staying for dinner, Vael?” Mel asked. Malachai looked over at him, shot him a pleading look. She could understand some words from the mouth;  _ Dinner _ was easy to understand. She signed  _ Please! _ aggressively as she crawled into his lap and pulled at his shirt collar.

“Since Malachai wants me to,” he smiled down at her as he signed  _ Yes. _ She clapped her hands together, made noise in the back of her throat that meant she was excited.

“Take your shoes off, then,” Mel ordered, eyeing his dirty boots with distaste. He went to untie his shoes; Malachai set to work on the other shoe, pulling at his tight knots. He knew how to knot a knot in a million different ways; Isabela teased him that he could knot cherry stems for a joke. He, when they’d finally gotten him drunk enough, did it with slick ease.

He pulled Malachai into his lap as he set to work on his other boot. She watched in earnest; she was set on knowing  _ everything _ .

Cautiously, Mel slipped her cloak on and stole out the back door. She strode over to Fenris’s mansion, pushed the door open carefully.

When she found Fenris, he was still in his armour. He had haphazard cuts, paper-thin but intended, along the tops of his thighs. His pants sat limp around his ankles. He barely looked up at Mel, so far gone in memories and drink that the only thing he could do was leak-- he was crying and it smelled like piss and Mel stopped at his bedroom door.

“Come to rip my ass about the  _ sensitive  _ Hawke?” He bit out, not looking at her.

Mel’s face stayed soft, but in her militant way, “No.”

A moment of silence passed. He looked up at her as she strode closer. Her hands were empty; she wore nothing but a pair of mid-length leather pants, a loose tunic and her cloak, her busted up feet bare and slapping on the flagstone floor.

She sat down on the floor in front of his splayed legs, played with the edge of her pants.

“You’re one of my best friends, Spike,” she said, “and I’m happy that you gave that  _ filthy  _ maleficar what he deserved.” She looked up at him, her brown eyes blazing with  _ pride.  _

“You and Garrett loving each other means little to me; all I want is for you both to be happy.” She straightened up onto her knees and looked into his eyes.

“You mean something to us, _ Fenris,  _ and I hope to see you at dinner.” She stood, went to his closet and pulled a fresh pair of smalls and tights out, laid them down on the floor beside his chair. She kissed his bloody forehead.

“Keep fighting,” She whispered into the cold room, patted his shoulder as she looked ahead. Fenris sighed shakily.

“Pass me a potion,” He griped, pointing to the basket Merrill had left him--  _ He doesn’t like magic, Mel, so we have to leave him this so he won’t catch infection. _

Mel brought him a potion; he grabbed her wrist.

“Thank you.” He whispered. There were more tears than markings on his face. Mel smeared some blood away from his cheek with a practiced, motherly hand. Then, she left.

__

Jasper is nearly thirty-four. He feels old when he sees Mel, who looks like she will be perpetually twenty-eight until she is in her forties; when he sees Garrett, he feels younger. He has salt and pepper hair and premature eye wrinkles. Ironically, they have opposite personalities. Despite looking carefree, Mel is a stout figure, responsible, worldly and broad picture; Garrett is more laid-back, kind of a wind-sucker ‘cause he’s got his head stuck up in the clouds and he’s very personal in his actions and heart. Jasper did not expect siblings like this. Frankly, he expected asshole shems that would hate on him for being elf-blooded; he figured he’d laugh them off and steal them blind. But they were good, as nice as Beth said-- Bethany will always be his favourite sister, hands down. She’s sweet, determined, romantic at the idea of a  _ normal _ life. Jasper would kick the Knight-Commander every day in the coochie if it made Beth smile, and he’d kill for her to be able to have a  _ normal  _ life.

He grew up mostly alone since his mum died when he was small, but he didn’t let that jade him. Mel teases him that his motherless upbringing gave him his skewed moral compass--  _ Andraste, you’ve got a heart for everyone _ . She teases him because she likes him; if she didn’t, she wouldn’t talk to him. Unironically, she and Jasper get along the best-- they understand that you have to do bad shit to get to the end goal; their defining difference is  _ how _ it’s done. Mel’s too honest for her own good; she’ll walk right up to her problem and smack it around. Jasper likes finesse.

Anders is like Mel; that’s why they get along so well. Jasper supposes he needs that  _ Yes OR No _ attitude in his life since his whole life had been coasted on maybes.  _ Maybe I’ll send you to the stocks,  _ OR  _ Maybe if your shem dad didn’t leave you, you’d have someone _ OR  _ Maybe you shouldn’t come to the next service. _ Anders said he was looking for a relationship the day they talked about it. Anders was needy with affection; he’d lay in Jasper’s lap for hours, just enjoying his presence. Jasper grew up cold; he had poor circulation and usually slept in barns or lofty attics of forgotten buildings, but when Anders wrapped his scrawny arms around his waist and practically glowed with heat, Jasper felt  _ warm _ .

Anders has his bad days, has his plummeting lows, but he’s worth every bad day. Anders was the first guy who made Jasper feel  _ needed _ . Jasper knows Anders doesn’t  _ need _ him to live, but he knows he needs him to keep him from losing himself. So he stays, even when Anders says he’s not worth it because he  _ is _ worth it.

Pillowtalk is Jasper’s favourite form of conversation; surely if you can share something as personal as sex, you can spare a secret or two; Jasper likes secrets. He keeps them in his mind to ponder when he’s alone, and they’re like company.

“Jas?” Anders says; he’s got his legs twisted with Anders’, got his blond head laying over his heart.

“Yeeeeeeeees?” He drawls, looks down at his beautiful boyfriend. He’s always so cheesy after they have sex.

“I want to leave Justice,” Anders whispers, strangely serious.

“Babe--” Jasper begins. Anders hears his heart stutter.

“Obviously in a  _ Keep my head on my shoulders  _ way,” he chuckles lightly. “I have a couple of ingredients I’ll need; think you could help me look some time next week?” His light brown eyes burrow into Jasper’s. His eyes glow silver in the dark, blue in the light.

“You still gonna suck my dick like you do?” He teased. Anders smiled, crawled back onto Jasper’s broad lap.

“You still gonna suck  _ my _ dick like  _ you _ do?” Anders parroted. Jasper met him in the middle for an aggressive kiss, but Anders teased him back to chase his mouth.

“Please?” He asked seriously. His bony ass was warm on Jasper’s thighs.

“You know it,” Jasper whispered. “Now will you  _ kiss _ me?” 

Anders smiled, gave him a kiss with both of his hands clasped over his cheeks. He gripped like he’d never let go; Jasper would hate the day that ever came true.

__

Mel was thirty-two. Her life is good-- she has three perfect children and hopes to have more. She is rich enough to keep her wife from the Circle and their lover from the stocks and her family safe from the direct abuse. She can afford to busy herself with Champion affairs and not worry about money-- she can day-drink and not worry about wasted time. But Mel still worries.

Anders is becoming more reclusive. Merrill doesn’t like going to Hightown anymore; she sometimes sleeps in the Alienage when the Templars come knocking too much. The Knight-Commander is fanatic now, Tranquilizing small children that cry too loud at night. Mel wonders if those wails will haunt her the rest of her life, or if she’ll be too busy laughing at it all.

The plan with the Knight-Captain is working well enough. Garrett sits with him at Chantry services; he is devout and shy and has  _ no _ friends. Or any interests, really. He just goes to work with that same soulless look on his face.

“I don’t understand the plight of the mages,” Cullen said one day. They were at a tavern that was loyal to Templars; therefore, Garrett had never been in and Mel was barred from entry.

“Pray tell?” Garrett said conversationally. He readied himself for the worst.

“We only make Maleficarum Tranquil,” he said, “and the Circle offers them free board, food, education… How many would give their lives for that?”

Garrett took a drink of ale; it was strong. He’d need liquid courage for this conversation. “But they give up the outside world and are never allowed to return. They are seen as less than; many run away in fear based on  _ rumour _ alone. And the Circle, like any institution, has its faults.” He gave a diplomatic smile, took another drink before Cullen could refute.

“You just explained Templar problems!” Cullen clasped Garrett on the arm, “You know, for a mage, you’re not so bad.”

Garrett choked on his drink; he coughed, gave Cullen a thankful smile and swallowed his anger.  _ It’s all worth it in the end. _

“The only problem with that is Templars can always choose to join the Order and are trained as  _ soldiers _ . The mages are  _ civilians. _ ” Garrett raised his hand for another ale.

“No offence, but if you’ve seen the things I’ve seen mages do…” Cullen trailed off. He got that dead look on his face as he stared at his swirling cup. He receded into traumatic memories as Anders did, not that he’d ever tell  _ either _ of them that.

Garrett thought of Mel’s hate-crime. How they threw her body down. How Cullen identified her based on her teeth. That grim satisfaction on his face; the face of a scared little boy given the Maker’s power. Garrett would feel sorry for Cullen if he wasn’t such an ignorant ass-sucker.

“I’m going to take off, I need to babysit Mel’s kids today-- something about date night or whatever.” Garrett excused himself from the bar, clapped his hand onto Cullen’s shoulder. He jumped, spilled his ale all over the counter. Cullen turned red from his ears to underneath his neck guard.

Garrett took a rag from the bar and scrubbed the wood clean, leaving some coppers for his drinks. Cullen nodded a quick thanks, left before the barkeep came to collect. He’d left a whole silver as if that would make up for the mess. Garrett wondered how many silvers Cullen would have to pay to right his wrongs.

__

Orana took the kids into the basement and locked the door behind her. Merrill put wards up; Isabela laid down a trap in front of the door. Mel let Merrill use her blood to call a demon into the world to defend the house.

The Templars had called their war; the Chantry was in ruin. She could still smell the dust settling over them all. Lowtown had seen damage; it’s winding streets burned as they did when anything bad happened, but the rich of Kirkwall were trapped in their rubbled homes. The Red Lantern district was a craggy mess; dazed prostitutes roamed the streets. Aveline was rounding civilians up and leading them to the Keep; Mel convinced her to aid the apostates into hiding among civilians. Aveline accepted with a gruff roll of her eyes-- she and Mel did not agree on many things, but they wanted to keep  _ everyone _ safe and Aveline had learned long ago that that included more than scared royals. Mel had the scars on her fists to prove it.

Mel met up with Garrett and Fenris; they’d helped escort all of the servants into safer quarters, away from the damage. Besides some of the cloistered faith, Grand Cleric Elthina and her Templar guards, few were reported dead. Yet.

Anders was still distraught, but he focused when he had to. Sebastian had fallen to his knees, staring at the smoking ruins. As soon as Knight-Commander Meredith claimed Annulment, he looked to Orsino and ran to the Gallows. He had finally chosen his side.

Mel, Merrill and Bela busted ass home and took care of their affairs; Mel kissed her children just in case someone ran her through; Malachai signed  _ I love you _ . Mel signed  _ I love you most. _ Vara cried and clung to her Momae; Merrill started crying, but she rubbed her daughter’s cheek and handed her over to Orana. Isabela kissed Leander’s cheeks and passed him to Malachai, who held his hand as Mel shut the door. He waved goodbye; once the protective measures were complete, Mel broke down into tears.

“I’ll do anything to save my kids.” She whispered, rubbed her tears away. Merrill slipped her hand into her own and Isabela took her other hand.

“We’ll make it,” Bela promised. She kissed Mel’s cheek and Merrill squeezed her hand. She had mage hands, and Mel was thankful for the little shocks she got. 

__

Carver is thirty years old. He has no wife, no children, no hope. He stays at the Circle for his sister; she has more of a life than he does, and she’s the prisoner. But he doesn’t hold that against her-- he just wants to be his own person. In the Order, he’ll always be the  _ Templar Killer’s _ little brother. Hopefully, someday, he’ll have his own title. 

When his Commander says they’re to annul the Circle, he meets her with deaf ears. Rutherford asks why, but he already knows.  _ A mage blew up the Chantry. _ Carver didn’t know which one, but he had a good feeling who. He’d hoped it was another qunari attack if there was to be a fight. It would hold the tensions at arm's length, at least.

He picks up his greatsword and dons his armour; he marches with his comrades and pretends he won’t run them through when he has his chance. He can see Mel at the mouth of the Gallows. She looks irreverent; her short hair is blowing in the wind and she looks particularly angry. Justified anger. He knows what she will choose.

He stands with his sister; He, Mel, Anders and Isabela go to spearhead the fight-- Varric, Merrill and Garrett climb the sides of the Gallows and find vantage points. Jasper, Fenris and Aveline stay back to maintain their presence and aid the mages in a better manner. Some Wardens are helping, their hands stained in hot blood from abominations and templars--

“You, you-- You  _ usurper!” _ His Commander cries. She is mad and has been for a long time. Carver hates her, so he spits on her shoes.  _ Finally, _ he thinks,  _ a fitting title. _

__

Mel is good at keeping promises.

Sebastian has her baby sister in his arms; he is crying, there’s blood on his lacquered light armour and dust dirtying his royal skin, but his teeth are bright and he’s kissing her cheeks, holding her close to his chest. Bethany is murmuring to him, running her fingers through his hair and smiling. Mel stands in front of them as Templars start to pile in. Sebastian looks at her with questions in his eyes as he widens his stance and nocks his arrows.

“I made a promise, didn’t I?” Mel said. She raises her sword and calls her battle cry; Carver does the same and Isabela whistles at the nearest soldier; it’s clear and true. Sebastian feels faithful at this moment; with his beloved close to him, her heartbeat so clear in his hands, how is that  _ not  _ justifiable? How is that  _ not  _ faithful?

He sneers out in his harshest Starkhavenian tone and looses an arrow; kills a Templar that would run his love through. He looses another, and another, and another--

He doesn’t realize there’s a rogue behind him until there’s a knife in his guts. He falls to the ground, hears Mel throw her arm in the air and slice the offender’s throat into a hanging mess; he sees how their head is held to their throat only by their creaking spine-- He knows she’s there, pushing Bethany back and minding the warriors striving towards them to take advantage of the lack of distance offence--

Anders heals him; he feels his hair blow in the windless Gallows and his body grows almost too warm before he feels back to himself. The knife is being pulled from his body by an airy force, his skin sewn by invisible hands. Sebastian hears the soft clatter and he stands. He does not know how to feel in the heat of battle; he had his oldest mentor stolen away from him, but his greatest stressor. His only living mother figure, but his cruellest jailor. He loves her and misses her and resents her and  _ wished she just had’ve left the Chantry because she never would make a decision anyway-- _

The battle rages on; Garrett has a circle of fire burning around him and Meredith. This is not like the battle with the Arishok; he will not be overpowered by his astute senses or Garrett’s fear. He does not fear the Knight-Commander and never has. He fears what she stands for-- death for the cold racing in his skin and sparks flying from his fingers. Death for dreams.

He spells her into a sheet of ice and when he finally manages to get her boots stuck, he heightens the flames with his hands and watches her armour glow hatefully and he feels no remorse when she howls in pain. He feels his mana draining; he whistles and opens a hole in his flames-- Fenris jumps in and crosses his sword with Meredith. He gives Garrett his war smile-- all teeth and no kindness, but there is the fervour and Garrett takes that with affection. Fenris is not soft, but he is good. People often confuse the two for the same thing.

The Templar Killer beats her pommel onto a Templar’s head, knocks him flat out when she sees a sneaking figure-- her eyes are trained to see the little things, minute and slinking along her periphery-- Mel throws herself in front of Isabela’s back; an arrow lands in her cuirass and she thuds to the ground as she smites the air; the archer balks at the feeling and Isabela throws her knife at their chest. Isabela defends her lover with her knives; she is graceful and strong and unforgiving-- she slices throat after throat without remorse. Carver rushes to his sister, sliding his sword into his comrades’ guts as he charges to her failing figure-- Mel’s bleeding out, that much is obvious.

Meredith is pinned under Fenris’ gaze and Anders’ hailstorms; Garrett has his sword-staff aimed at her throat before a great haze of blood-cloud smite overtakes the courtyard and--

Merrill is searching frantically for her blade, for any blade. Carver drops to his knees, pulls his sleeve up and slices his forearm to the bone, hardly feeling the pain. Merrill gathers his blood in bubbles and surges it into Mel’s failing heart. The arrow melts into black light, fades away into the shadows as she steadily pales. Her eyes are all over black, and her skin is ashen grey-- she is dying.

Garrett throws himself over Fenris’ body as Meredith’s form withers and expands and turns blindingly white; Anders watches on until Jasper swings from the rafters and grabs him to his chest, on his tippy-toes as he holds him tight from her death--

_ “The day you reach the Beyond,” _ her voice gurgled, but it wasn’t her own. Merrill’s eyes went wide, then she took Carver’s greatsword from his limp grip and sliced her thighs open, pulls the blood from the oozing bodies around them into a growing typhoon around Mel. The air tastes like salt and copper and the whites in Merrill’s eyes turn red; When Mel inhales and lurches up, Merrill sags against Carver’s shoulder and the blood falls on them like rain. Her thighs stitch together into a hard, puckered pinky scar. Isabela takes his sister into her arms and holds her sagging body; he knows she’s counting her stuttering heartbeats. Carver looks to the storming sky, licks the red from his lips and sighs. His world is ending in blood. He can feel his body giving out.

Mel looks over to see him slipping to the ground, falling asleep in the warm, sluggish way that blood loss brings. Bethany drops to the ground, holds his arm up and heals it fast, but Mel can see the infection climb up his skin. The Taint. She escaped her fate, so it must take another. There is yelling and Templars are ushering to the Circle to kill the mages too scared to remain human. There are mages off to make sure the Templars don’t kill the rest in case _ of corruption. _

Grey Wardens were in Kirkwall. Mel stands on achy feet, pulls her massive brother onto her shoulders like he is her world (because he is,  _ fuck, _ he _ is)  _ and carts him to the steps of the Gallows. She doesn’t give the petrified statue of a glimmering red Meredith a second glance. She huffs down the steps, watches her brother get sicker and sicker with the Blight racing in his weak veins. She doesn’t see this, but Garrett pulls Fenris up and kisses him as the world crashes around them. She doesn’t see their friends puke and pass out and bleed; she just feels Carver’s imposing bulk slowly grow lighter as the Taint eats him up from the inside out.

Mel’s tears are falling freely now. She stumbles and falls when she meets the bottom of the stairs; she picks herself up and carries him further, to the docks where the Wardens sit in wait for a boat. There is one, Nathaniel Howe, that she knows. He bade his men drop their weapons. She didn’t realize she was wearing only her chest bindings and her battle pants, how bloodsoaked her hair was. How much her skin sang with lyrium.

“Take him,” she coughs. She drops to her knees, her back sagging under the weight. Nathaniel and another Warden help Carver off her back, holding him up as Nathaniel pulls her up, too.

“We will, Serah Hawke,” Nathaniel says. Cuts his arm and feeds it over Carver’s slack mouth, watches as he perks up enough to live for more than the night. She starts to fall again; he pulls Mel up, holds her arm over his broad back as Fenris charges to her. He catches her up in his arms, pats her bloody hair back with his naked hands. Their friends and her siblings are hot on his tail. There is a boat slinking close to the dock. All Mel can think of is Fenris’ naked hands on her forehead. 

“No more spikes, Twitch?” She teased. He laughed, hugged her to his strong little body. She groans out softly, but enjoys the moment-- he’s a good man.

“I can’t believe it,” Anders sighs. He looks like he’s newborn, looking at the world with  _ expectation.  _ Jasper slots his body closer, protectively. 

“Mel?” Carver coughs. She pulls herself, half-dead, over to where the other Warden is holding her baby brother up. 

The group is silent; there are still sounds of death. Abominations howl and Templar zealots sob as they are razed. The water pushes and pulls at the bobbing boat; distantly, there is a storm coming.

“I guess we aren’t children anymore, are we?” He asks. The sea breeze swirls his curls around; they are short, just how he likes them. Mel is half standing but she refuses anyone’s help to stand fully.

She takes her brother’s blighted face in-between her hands and holds it. She cradles him like when he was crabby and three years old and a baby and time was simple.

“You’ll always be my kid brother,” she kisses his forehead, smooths his crusted hair away from his handsome face. Bethany is crying and so is Garrett.

The boat makes a dull  _ thud _ noise against the dock and Nathaniel takes Carver’s other massive arm and shoulders it. The two other Wardens grab his legs and help lower him into the boat. Mel helps mind his head, brushes her roughened thumb over his strong brow before she takes Nathaniel by the chin and stares at him in the eyes-- she’s on her hands and knees and pinching his skin so hard he feels the blood leave his face.

“If I don’t get a letter confirming his survival I want him cremated in Lothering.” She released his chin, all of the fervour leaving her body. She was kneeling before the ocean as if it was her brutal captor, her war-ridden eyes slipping in and out of vision. Isabela pulls Mel back from swaying into the murky, choppy waves as she passes out watching the boat take Carver away; the last thing she thinks is  _ Fuck, I have to kill that fucking demon we left at the house. _

__

Mel wakes up in her bed at home. Her chest is wrapped and bandaged; it’s just a nasty flesh wound now. Her bones hurt, and her mouth tastes like iron. The heavy curtains are pulled back, but the light shaders glimmer a heavenly cream against the rich red paint of their bedroom. She can smell Isabela’s hair oil on the pillow next to her and she knows Merrill has been in recently; one of her favourite throws, one that Leandra had knitted for her, was in a little heap at the foot of the bed where she liked to perch.

She sits up carefully in bed and gingerly sets her feet down onto the floor. She pulls her robe from its nail in the bedpost and slips it on, ties it tight enough that it covers the bandage. She leans heavily against the frame of her bed and pants; she hasn’t walked in a  _ very _ long time. She spots one of Garrett’s staffs, placed conveniently beside the door. She leans on it as she makes her way to the sitting room.

“MUM!” Her children chorus. Leander leaps and clings to one of her weak legs. Vara and Malachai hug at her waist, peek up at her with loving eyes. Vara starts to cry, and Mel feels tears swell in her eyes as well. 

_ “Da’len,” _ Merrill calls from the settee. She and Isabela were pressed hip-to-hip. The kids release her; the twins push a chair over for her to sit on, and Leander toddles her to the seat, his chubby little legs pulling her carefully to her seat. Once she sits, he gingerly crawls into her lap. Vara and Malachai throw their arms over her neck and kiss her cheeks. Mel’s sobbing in her quiet way.

“Mel?” Garrett calls up the stairs. 

“What?” She complained. A thundering crash rolls up the steps; the rest of the gang parade up to the sitting room. Garrett falls to his knees and hugs the whole fucking chair. Anders and Jasper reach to kiss her forehead at the same time--

_ “Fuck,  _ you fellas, I’m  _ fine,” _ she bitches. The entire room howls with laughter.

“There’s my wife,” Merrill teases tearfully. The room parts for her and Isabela. She kisses Isabela first, soft and slow to enjoy the moment. Watches how her eyes crinkle when she smiles, goldenheart shining in her pretty eyes. Merrill kisses her hard, holds the back of her scarred head in her hands.

“Momae, you’re crushing me,” Leander complains. The room gives a light chuckle. Merrill rubs her thumbs over her son’s cheek, kisses his forehead with teary eyes. She kisses her wife again, just so she knows she loves her.

There’s a knock at the door. Bethany goes to answer it.

“So, how’re you feeling?” Garrett asked. He was sitting on the opposite chair from her now, Fenris leaning against his feet. Jasper and Anders had taken Isabela and Merrill’s places on the settee; Sebastian sat on the floor, Malachai cuddled into his lap. Vara made her way into Fenris’ arms, and he snuggled her up like she was a baby.

“Like shit.” She responded-- there was a joke primed on her tongue when Bethany rushed back up the stairs.

“Anders, you need to leave.” She whispered. The entire room went silent, the mood tightened.

“Why?” He asked, then he realized. He and Jasper shot to the back of the mansion, down to the secret entrance.

“HAWKE!” The new Knight-Commander called. Mel picked Leander up shakily, held him out for Bethany to take.

“I’m running that fuckhead through,” she growled, caught her aching chest as she heaved. When Isabela put her arms out to help her, Mel held her away; she  _ could _ do this.

In the back of her head, however, she could hear Carver’s voice saying  _ Sit down before you pass out again, you blighter. _

Bethany looked at Mel, and with certainty, she put Leander down and nudged him to Sebastian, nodding away his confused little look.

“We’re sisters, we’ll do it together,” she took her sister under her arm and went to go down the steps--

“Look, I know I have hair on my titties, but it’s rude of you to forget me,” Garrett teased; he slipped Mel’s other arm over his shoulders, sat his staff against the wall.

As a family, they walked down the stairs and into the foyer. Rutherford stood stiffly, his gleaming armour retaining its shine in the dark front room. A few lackeys stood at the doorway.

“The apostate Anders is needed for questioning by Divine Victoria. I heard he was last seen entering this vicinity?” He swallowed uncomfortably. He remembers going to Garrett’s aid; there was a look of shame in his eyes, like seeing mages as people went against all of his morals.

“He’s not here.” Mel lied smoothly.

Rutherford gave her a deadpan glare,  _ “Please _ don’t make me use force. I know you think you did us all a favour back there, Serah Hawke, but--”

Bethany punched him in the face. Rocks fell to the floor; his lip was split.

“What was  _ that _ for?!” He bellowed.

“She didn’t do  _ anything _ for you,” Bethany shouted. Little, sweetheart Bethany with her doll face and saccharine smile.

Cullen’s eyes flash dangerously, “Listen, you little fucking whore--”

Another punch, this time from Garrett, slammed Cullen’s mouth shut. Rocks fell to the ground and blood poured from the jagged scar on Cullen’s face.

“Leave my home,  _ NOW,” _ Garrett thundered. Lightning crawled along his arms. Bethany was holding Mel up, who was smiling proudly. That smile hit Cullen harder than anything ever used against him his entire life.

“I thought--” Cullen stared accusingly at Garrett, betrayal colouring his whiskey eyes.

“I love my family like you love your Order,” he barked. Garrett had never been unkind to him. It all made sense now.

“My  _ friend  _ Anders is not here.” Mel stated, “In fact, he should be on a boat to Tevinter by now.” She smiled with such genuine conviction Cullen’s eyes flashed.

“Would you like to see the bill for the tickets I bought?” Mel simpered.

“Don’t let the crusade kill you on the way out,” he spat onto the floor before he left swiftly. Garrett almost felt bad about the sad look Cullen had when he left-- poor, stupid, traumatized bastard had no friends.

__

“Do you regret me?” Anders asked. They were on a ferry to Orlais. Sea salt breeze and the rhythmic roiling belly of the ship kept the pair lulled in half-sleep as they laid side-by-side.

_ “DO you regret ME?” _ Jasper parroted back. Anders rolled over and shot him a serious look.

“I regret that we couldn’t do enough for each other,” Jasper answered honestly as he rolled over to face him. “I regret that you didn’t tell me what you were doing because I could’ve alerted the Jennies to evacuate the prostitutes and the good cloistered sisters,” Jasper rested his hand on Anders’ face, his palm covering his whole cheek, “I regret that the Chantry had to be blown to bits before anyone  _ thought _ to choose a side,” he wiped his boyfriend’s tears away, “I regret power is more addictive than anything in the whole world.”

“I regret that you think you owe the entire world your entire being all the time,” he sighed shakily, “and I regret the fucking  _ assholes _ that made you hate yourself the way you shouldn’t.” He bit out.

Then, Jasper’s bitter face cleared, “But I’ll never regret loving you.”

Anders’s face burst into sobbing tears; Jasper pulled him tight to his chest, pawed at his hastily shorn hair and kissed his lined forehead.

“You love me?” He half-way giggled, clung to Jasper’s strong arms as he wiggled his body closer and looked up in desperation.

“I do,” Jasper leaned in and kissed him; Anders sighed, his tears falling into their kiss and staining it with salt and sorrow. Jasper licked them gone, rubbed his snotty nose clean on his shirtsleeve. Anders laughed as he pawed his hand away, slipped his face into the crook of Jasper’s strong neck. He did not feel better about himself, but he felt his hurts healed just enough. In time, perhaps he would feel like himself.

They are not children any longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the cliffhanger felt like an asshole move so I made the story happy. probably. we still don't know if Carver made it... 
> 
> this concludes this story, though. I might write a couple of spin-offs if I feel I need to elaborate on some things, but other than that I'm working on a couple of different dragon age works. 
> 
> private message me on Tumblr @biiitchofcambridge if you'd like to talk, I'm game for most conversations :)

**Author's Note:**

> The third Hawke triplet shows up eventually :)


End file.
